


An Era of Darkness: Year 1

by jimmiejamz



Series: Harry Potter and the Time Everything Changed [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Hogwarts First Year, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-07-11 00:02:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15960404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimmiejamz/pseuds/jimmiejamz
Summary: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has played host to many outstanding and powerful magic users in its time, their most infamous student forever known to all of Britain. But the year 1991 brings forth three new first years that may rewrite that history. For better or for worse. Parallel AU.





	1. Weird Wands

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: As said in the summary, this is a Parallel AU. The fic will follow the general plot of the original but will deviate from time to time, however I strive to make sure the characters and their decisions are realistic and appropriate for the new personalities and/or situations I have created.
> 
> Warning: I shall be taking inspiration from the legend G.R.R. Martin himself and write only when I feel I can produce the best quality possible. In other words, this will have no regular updates because life does get in the way and sometimes the words refuse to flow the way they should. It is my intention to finish this story, and the following years too, but it will take time. A lot of time. So if you're willing, I'll be more than happy to share my take on the Wizarding World with you.
> 
> Alrighty ladies and lads, without further ado settle in and get yourselves ready for a whole new spin on The Boy Who Lived, the golden trio, and every other thing you already know about the world of magic.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing except my own imagination. And a couple cats...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I shall be taking inspiration from the legend G.R.R. Martin himself and write only when I feel I can produce the best quality possible. In other words, this will have no regular updates because life does get in the way and sometimes the words refuse to flow the way they should. It is my intention to finish this story, and the following years too, but it will take time. A lot of time. So if you're willing, I'll be more than happy to share my take on the Wizarding World with you.
> 
> As said in the summary this is a Parallel AU, so the story will follow the general plot of the original but will deviate from time to time in both major and minor instances. Because of this, I strive to make sure the characters and their decisions are realistic and appropriate for the new personalities and/or situations I have created.
> 
> Alrighty ladies and lads, without further ado settle in and get yourselves ready for a whole new spin on The Boy Who Lived, the golden trio, and every other thing you already know about the world of magic.
> 
> ~jj
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing except my own imagination. And a couple cats...

Garrick Ollivander has sold many wands.

For decades he has found no greater pleasure than mixing and matching wood types with cores to produce the most uniquely crafted wands in the world. From his own wand, Dragon heartstring, Hornbeam, 12 ¾ inch, Slightly Bendy, to among the thousands of youngsters entering his store to purchase their own, Ollivander has seen nearly every combination of wood and core—at least more than any other person alive to date. While some wands are common, the harmony between Holly and Unicorn hair or Fir and Phoenix feather, for instance, there have always been strange fusions, none more so than the wand sold in the summer of 1938.

Phoenix feather, Yew, 13 ½ inch, Brittle. An especially strange combination as Yew wood tends to lean towards a more dark and fearsome use, whereas the Phoenix align themselves with healing and light. Yes, it was an odd wand, but there have always been odd wands. In fact, the first ever wand Ollivander sold forced him to question his abilities as a crafter. Dragon heartstring, Hazel, 7 inch exactly, Quite Bendy. A combination thought most strange, however, it was merely a quickly learnt lesson on the ways the wand chooses the wizard—no matter how unlikely it may seem.

Whatever happened to that odd wand, Ollivander did not know. But he did know what came of the Phoenix feather and Yew. He would never forget, nor would the Wizarding World. The most dangerous wizard known to mankind, once a polite eleven-year-old boy named Tom Riddle, now known only as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named owned that wand. The wand achieved terrible deeds, terrible indeed.

From that moment on Ollivander became very wary of handing out or even so much as making wands capable of such power and such evil, keeping only the remainder crafted at the time on the tallest shelf in the back most corner of his cluttered keep. They were some of the most powerful in the world, capable of such greatness, Ollivander often shuddered at the thought of what they might become. Luckily, the few left have never once tried to seek a potential master, as if Ollivander had cast a curse upon them. Of course, he would never, for every wand made always holds the possibility of good. He would  _ _never__ destroy a wand—especially one of his own making, as they are alive with magic, and to kill magic would be one of the worst acts Ollivander could think of committing.

 _ _'Removing magic of any kind from the world was the worst crime one can do,'__ he thought sadly.

Ollivander turned to face the long aisle behind him, towered either side by long, grand shelves holding his stock of wands. His pride and joy. He took a deep breath and surveyed the dusty boxes sitting at the top then down to those near head-height which were worn and frayed after being taken out over and over. He picked up his wand and began repairing some of the more worse for wear boxes on his left, still brooding about the past.

The door swung open, a melodic chime ringing from the little gold bell on top of the doorway before being covered by the sound of confident footsteps.

Ollivander swivelled around quickly, having been so abruptly removed from his thoughts, knocking over a couple of boxes nearby in the process.

"Sorry to frighten you, Mr Ollivander!" A girlish voice called out from the front.

Ollivander waved his hand and smiled, "Not to worry, dear."

He waved his wand with a slight flick and all the boxes neatly placed themselves back to their original position. He now stood facing the source of the voice and cocked an eyebrow.

Standing in front with her hands behind her back was a young witch, and judging by her black robes Ollivander deduced that she was to be starting Hogwarts in a couple of weeks. Her head was covered in thick bushy hair and her face was slightly pudgy, still carrying some baby-fat, with rather large front teeth displayed proudly by her wide smile. She was shorter than the average eleven-year-old girl Ollivander usually encountered and skinnier too—a direct contrast to her round face.

 _ _'A strong personality,'__ Ollivander mused, noting the girl's steady gaze.  _ _'possibly a Maple or Beech...'__

"How are you, young lady?" He greeted pleasantly.

"Very well, thank you." The girl replied with a grin. "Just finished buying all my school equipment. I'm going to Hogwarts at the end of the month!"

Ollivander nodded and gestured around him, "Well would you like to try some wands then, miss...?"

"Granger," the girl finished. "Hermione Granger."

"OK Miss Hermione Granger," Ollivander picked up the box nearest to him. "take this and give it a little wave in the air."

Hermione grasped the box and pulled out a bumpy, curved wand.

"Phoenix feather, Ash, 9 inch exactly, Supple," Ollivander informed her as she gave him a quizzical look.

"Phoenix feather..." Hermione muttered. "Produces the widest range of magic, the rarest core, the most difficult to tame."

Ollivander's eyes widened, as did his smile.

"I read all about wand lore the moment I found out I was a witch. I really admire your work." Hermione said proudly and Ollivander bowed his head in respect.

"Thank you kindly, and very well remembered." He complimented. "What are you waiting for, give it a wave!"

Hermione took a shallow breath and swung blindly but nothing happened.

Hermione's face fell but Ollivander merely chuckled.

"I think  _not_ then!" He said loudly as he carefully chose the next box. "This one?"

Hermione placed the Ash wand back in its box and exchanged it with the one in Ollivander's outstretched hand.

"Phoenix feather, Walnut, 11 ½ inch, Yielding," Ollivander explained as Hermione waved it in the air.

Pitiful pink sparks dribbled out of the tip and splattered to the floor before disappearing.

"Interesting..." Ollivander said, retrieving the box from Hermione's small hand.

"It often takes a long time for witches and wizards to find their true wand," Hermione said brightly.

"Indeed." Ollivander agreed as he flicked his wand so a box sitting high in a shelf to the right of him sailed down onto his desk.

Hermione picked it up without question and swung it fiercely.

A loud bang erupted and send a full shelf of boxes cascading towards the ground, some scorched in little orange flames. Hermione squeaked and put the wand firmly back in the box just as Ollivander extinguished remaining flames and moved all the boxes back to their rightful place.

"What was  _ _that__?" Hermione asked, her voice dripping with intrigue.

"Dragon heartstring," Ollivander answered. "which as it seems, you have a very powerful affinity towards."

Hermione beamed at him and jumped on the spot. "Dragon heartstring, the most powerful of the cores, the easiest to change masters and the easiest to turn to the dark arts."

Ollivander stood very still. Hermione was looking at him as if she was expecting praise again.

Something flickered in her eyes as she said  _ _"Dark arts"__... Or maybe it was just Ollivander's imagination, the worries of an ageing man, though he could not say for certain. He stared down at the small girl, still smiling sweetly with nothing but pure elation in her eyes—no greed, no hunger. Maybe he saw nothing, after all, a trick of the light or his tiring brain. He shook his head and began selecting wands, replaying her words carefully and desperately attempting to remember her tone and her face when she said the words.

For hours it seemed, Ollivander handed wands to Hermione and she would wave them around with little to no effect. He knew Hermione was waiting for another Dragon heartstring, but as long as she did not ask, he would stick to Phoenix feather and the odd Unicorn hair, as her first wave with Unicorn hair resulted in angry red marks covering her hands. Nothing she swung yielded anything close to the amount of magic the Dragon heartstring did, just a few sparks here and there and a couple of bubbles out of a particularly unique Silver Lime, 15 inch.

After the ninetieth wand spurted nothing but warm air out of the tip, Ollivander had to admit defeat.

 _It must be done._ He packed away the wand and slowly made his way to some of the more tame Dragon heartstring wands, in hope that it would satisfy her seemingly endless magical potential.

His eyes quickly scanned row upon row until his eyes landed on a box near the back of the store.

" _Perfect!_ " He said excitedly. "Oh, how did I not see before?"

He summoned the box with his wand and faced Hermione with a near crazed expression on his face, ignoring Hermione's look of surprise.

"Dragon heartstring!" He announced, pulling the aged wand from its case. "Vine Wood, 10 ¾, Springy."

"Wow!" Hermione breathed, gaping at the neat, white wand being handed to her.

Ollivander smiled in triumph as Hermione's small hands tightly gripped the wand. Instantly the room became a few degrees warmer, not overbearing but not too pleasant either. Ollivander's smile faltered a little but then Hermione took a swing.

Shocking flashes of blue and yellow blazed across the room, but inflicting no damage, as if they were merely illusions. Then the blue and yellow swirled and mixed, blending nicely into a soft green which collected itself and turned into an orb. The orb moved with Hermione's movements precisely, demonstrating the control the young witch had over the light, and easing Ollivander's poor ageing heart.

It was pretty much perfect.

"Wow..." Hermione repeated, still moving the green orb around the room. "This is really, really..."

Ollivander was so happy he did not realise her eyes were resting on the back of the room, looking—searching for something. He did not notice that the ball had dimmed and was slowly decreasing in size and that her arm raised the wand a fraction higher. He did not see a glint in her eyes, it wasn't greed or desire more like passion for... something. Only when she waved it a second time did he hear the sound of air passing through his ears and realised that she had somehow managed to summon another box. A box he had not seen in a very, very long time for it had been stored on the topmost shelf in the back of his room. The place where certain wands were never sought after.

But now one had.

Before he could stop her, Hermione had opened the box. The wand was red, fairly straight but with a very sharp looking tip. It was carved with intricate swirling patterns along the handle which was slightly curved, to fit comfortably in one's hand. It looked more like a long, thin blood-caked dagger than a wand.

Hermione dropped the Vine Wood wand in favour of the red one and the moment the wood came in contact with her skin, the whole atmosphere changed. The slightly too warm air cooled to the perfect temperature with a delightful summer breeze wafting through the windows. The yellow glow from the now setting sun had illuminated double-fold, casting the room in a cosy gold blanket. Light sprinkles of grass blades sprouted through the cracks of the stone walls and wooden floorboards, drifting in the wind and the faint sound of chirping birds could be heard.

The pair stayed silent for a moment, taking in the new environment that had so suddenly enveloped them before Ollivander spoke in a weak voice.

"Dragon heart... Cherry... 14 ½ inch... Unyielding..." He said, forcing himself to speak. "Unusually pigmented, much brighter than the average... And one of the most dangerous combinations in the world if in the wrong hands..."

"Well," Hermione said confidently. "based on the reaction that happened when I touched it, I doubt _my_ hands are the wrong hands."

As if to prove her statement correct, she twirled the wand in a tight circle and produced a small, silver bird made of paper which soared around and landed softly on her shoulder.

Ollivander stared at her carefully before properly scanning the room. Beautiful flowers began blooming in a circle around Hermione with pink and purple fireflies buzzing around above her head like a crown. She looked like a woodland princess. Perhaps... Perhaps she is right, and her hands will not be the cause of terror and ill intent. Even if Ollivander thought otherwise, he was in no position to deny the girl her wand for it was most certainly only belonging to her.

"Well, Miss Granger," He said with polite enthusiasm. "the wand chooses the wizard or witch in this case. I admit I was a bit nervous about selling this particular wand to anyone, but as you rightly said before, your hands are the right hands, the right ones to be handling that wand."

Hermione held the wand in both her hands, softly tracing a finger along the swirling carvings, and looked up at him with a broad grin. The atmosphere made even her two large front teeth look more pleasant.

"I will be honest," Ollivander continued, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. "I have never seen a wand react so strong nor so positively towards another before. It truly was a magnificent sight to behold. So I thank you." He bowed.

"My pleasure!" Hermione giggled.

Ollivander chuckled along with her as she paid for her new wand. That particular wand was slightly more expensive than regular, however, due to the remarkable bond between witch and wand, Ollivander was inclined to give the young girl a hefty discount. He watched as she left, waving goodbye and keeping his eyes on her dark shadow until she met with two taller figures then disappeared into the inky blackness of the night.

He wondered if people were disappointed that his shop seemed to be closed for the majority of the day, as an illusion appears whenever someone enters the shop looking for a new wand making it seems as if it were closed. This was due to the chance the choosing process takes a very long time, as in the case of Miss Granger, and it was easier for Ollivander to work with minimal distractions. In fact, the meeting with the young witch took so long, that Ollivander was a minute off closing for the night. Seeing as no one would have stuck around for a chance to purchase a wand from him, he decided to close slightly early.

However right before he switched out the light, a very loud knock came from outside the door.

"'Cuse me, Mr Ollivander?" A booming voice called. It was so loud, it made Ollivander's left ear pop.

He hurried to the door and gracefully opened it.

"Hello Mr Hagrid," Ollivander greeted happily. "how are you this fine evening?"

A man nearly twice the size he should be and three times the width stood completely covering the doorway, so Ollivander could not see past him. He has wild bushy hair with a beard to match, and beetle black eyes crinkled in an elated smile.

"Oh it's so great yer still 'ere," Hagrid said. "We thought you'd be closed fer the night."

"I had a very challenging customer late morning," Ollivander explained. "took up most of my day. My sincerest apologies, Mr Hagrid."

Hagrid waved an enormous hand. "Not a problem, Ollivander, not a problem!"

"So what can I do for you?" Ollivander asked.

"We'll be needin' a wand, ya see!" Hagrid said excitedly, clapping his hands together.

"But Mr Hagrid—" Ollivander began, but stop dead when he saw a flash of pale skin and a mop of black hair hiding behind Hagrid's left arm, now that he had raised it.

"Oh." He finished, moving away from the door and gesturing for them both to enter.

"Off yer go, Harry."

Ollivander's heart stilled for a moment.

Skinny and cautious, Harry walked into the small shopkeep. His bright green eyes lying behind circular glasses glanced around curiously, and his messy black hair styled in a way to attempt to hide his scar, but Ollivander knew as would any witch or wizard who saw him. The boy who stopped He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named as a baby, the boy who lost everything except his life that night, the boy who saved the Wizarding World.

And here he was, thinking that selling one of the most lethal wands to a bubbly, slightly over-confident eleven-year-old girl would be the highlight of his day.

"It is my great honour to serve you, Mr Potter," Ollivander said, bowing deeply. "As I served your mother and father before you. Terrible tragedy, truly terrible."

Harry looked uncomfortable and gave a tight smile in return.

"I'll be waitin' out 'ere for yer Harry." Hagrid's loud voice called out before the door closed soundly.

Ollivander watched Harry with an intense glare eyes desperately searching for the thin, lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. Harry to seem to know that his eyes were going and ducked his head, moving away from the older wizard.

"Very sorry, Mr Potter," Ollivander said quickly, moving behind the counter and ushering the boy closer. "If you will come here, we can start seeing which wand suits you best."

Harry shuffled an inch closer before stopping, still a good foot away from the desk.

Ollivander nodded to him and began searching around with glee. He pulled box after box from every section of the room trying to get a good combination of wands to present to Harry. Once he held a stack nearly half his height, did he return to the desk.

"Right, Mr Potter," Ollivander handed Harry a box from the top of the immense pile. "If you will please try this."

Harry tentatively reached and held the box in his hands.

"Unicorn hair, Larch, 13 ¼ inch, Bendy." Ollivander described as Harry took the wand from within the box.

He gave it a small wave and a rush of cool air blew through the room.

"Excellent!" Ollivander cried. "Truly excellent!"

"So is this my wand then?" Harry asked, speaking for the first time.

"No my boy!" Ollivander laughed. "Oh no, no that wand will not do. Will not do!"

"Then why are you happy?" Harry said angrily.

"Because wands are my passion, Mr Potter," Ollivander said calmly after having received this treatment often during his long career. "And every wand you fail with is one step closer to finding your true wand."

Harry shoved the wand back in the box and handed it back, not looking the older wizard in the eye.

"Here," Ollivander offered Harry another box. "Dragon heartstring, Red Oak, 15 ¾ inch, Rigid. A rather uncommon one."

Harry picked it up and tested the balance, frowning.

"You don't like it?" Ollivander guessed.

"It's a bit heavy..." Harry muttered.

Ollivander huffed softly. "Well give it a wave and we'll see where it takes you."

Harry did as he was told and swung it with even less force than the wand before. The slight movement, however, was enough to allow bright red flames to spit out from the tip, burning a hole in the bottom of Ollivander's desk.

"No!" Ollivander said quickly, using his own wand to extinguish the flames and fix the damage. "Definitely not!"

"Sorry," Harry uttered, dropping the wand back into the box and putting it back on the newly repaired desk.

"No matter, no matter," Ollivander replied with a small wave of his hand.

"What about that one?" Harry asked, pointing to a box sitting on the corner of the desk, seemingly forgotten and already open.

Ollivander stood still, shocked. "Oh well, I don't think—"

Harry reached forward and picked up the box, staring at the wand for a moment before grasping it tightly in his hand. Dark green sparks immediately sprang from the tip, turning to pale snowflakes before hitting the ground. Harry twisted his hand a little to the right and a calm waterfall seeped out of the tip, turning into a slowing mist before it hit the ground. The waterfall then changed colour rapidly, following the spectrum in a very precise manner and slowly seemed to be turning into a liquid art piece.

"Oh..." Ollivander said with a small note of disappointment. "That is Phoenix feather, Pine, 12 inch exactly, Slightly Springy."

Harry ignored him and looked solely at the wand with carefully hidden pleasure. It was average in every aspect: neat, straight, smooth, with clean wood grains running from the handle to the rounded tip. It's medium toned, neutral brown contrasting poorly with his jet black hair and bright green eyes. The mundane appearance of the wand looked very out of place being in the hand of The Boy Who Lived, the most extraordinary child ever known. But Ollivander spotted a fleeting smile on Harry's face and knew that this was the wand for him. This boring, plain, completely ordinary wand that would have been seen as amazing in almost any other hand.

"How much?" Harry asked abruptly.

Ollivander snapped out of his trance and addressed Harry. "Normally a standard wand like this would cost six Galleons, however, seeing as you  _ _are__ _ _—__ "

"Then I'll pay six Galleons." Harry interrupted with a firm note in his voice, diving his fist in his pocket.

"All right," Ollivander said quietly. "Are you sure this is the one you want, Mr Potter? You are more than welcome to try—"

"No I'm fine, thank you," Harry said with forced politeness. "Don't want to take up any more of your time."

"Don't worry about me, dear boy," Ollivander said lightly. "I am more than—"

"Here you go," Harry said quickly, dumping six golden coins on Ollivander's desk and turning to leave.

"Wait!" Ollivander called out desperately. "Do you not want to hear more about your wand?"

"No thank you," Harry said before swiftly leaving the store.

Ollivander stared at the door for a few moments, trying to make sense of the events that just took place. The Boy Who Lived with a wand suited for a timid, shy child? That could not be... Why had he not wanted to try more? Why had he not wanted to at least hear more about the wand he chose. Did he even chose it, or did the wand chose him?

The wand chooses the wizard. It is the philosophy Ollivander has maintained and preached throughout his entire career. If the wand had not indeed wished to be picked by young Mr Potter then the pair could lead to beyond dire consequences.

Ollivander's mind was spinning. A Phoenix feather in the hands of a child— in the hands of  _anyone_  who was not the true master was especially dangerous. Dragon heart could be turned by a strong enough contender, Unicorn would be damaged and cease to work unless a replacement was made. But Phoenix wands... The boy was at risk of terrible danger. He moved to the right of his desk and pulled out some parchment and a quill.

"Dumbledore," he muttered as ink blots stained the sheet. "He must watch over Mr Potter, he must tell him of the danger—"

He stopped instantly. He looked at the still opened box sitting on his desk and gasped as realisation flooded his mind.

"The core..." Ollivander whispered harshly. "The Phoenix feather... The core connected to... He shares a link with—!"

All thoughts of the potential mismatched wand and owner flew out the window as he rushed to re-write the note. He must tell Dumbledore, he must inform him about the twin connection between Harry Potter and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He felt ashamed to not have noticed before but now he knew, he knew that The Boy Who Lived was destined for that seemingly plain wand. It was his and Ollivander would bet his life that the wand had chosen Harry. He quickly locked his store and with a small  _'_ _ _Pop!'__  left the spot he was once standing.

He suddenly stood in his living room, his owl squawking loudly as he hurried to tie the note to his leg then send him away to Hogwarts. He must warn the Headmaster, he must inform him about the connection between the two most famous wizards of all time, and what that connection may represent. Ollivander sighed as he watched his brown owl soar off into the night and laid down on his bed. How he didn't see before, he did not know. Perhaps it was hard to see how such an important feather could lie in such a boring case. Perhaps in the rush of serving the most famous recent wizard got to his head and clouded his judgment.

It was no matter now, Dumbledore would soon receive the note and would be able to explain the importance of the wand that chose the young wizard. Yes, Ollivander would bet his life that the ordinary looking Phoenix Pine 12 inch desired Mr Potter as much as the boy desired it.

Through his entire life, he has never had such an interesting day, selling not just one but two extraordinarily weird wands. Weird but wonderful wands. As his mind raced through the day's events, he paused and saved an extra thought for the young Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, the boy who had stopped the evillest wizard known, the boy who was destined for greatness. While he feared for the boy's safety as every witch and wizard did ever since that fateful night, he held one thought to put his mind at ease.

He had never known someone in possession of a Pine wand to live a short life.


	2. The Black Trunk

Harry Potter tapped the window of his bedroom rhythmically, his eyes fixed on the rising sun emerging over the street. He sat waiting, waiting for the moment he could escape the room he was in, the house, the neighbourhood, the country. He wanted so desperately to leave Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, the place he was forced to call home for his entire life.

Harry was an orphan, dropped on the doorstep of the Dursley's, his Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon—the only family he had left. His aunt and uncle had a son the same age as Harry, Dudley who began to torment him from the moment he could walk, and as Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never liked Harry, allowed their true son to do whatever he liked with the little orphan boy they were obliged to care for. They never once mentioned Harry's parents, how they died or why he was placed in their possession, and Harry soon learnt not to ask questions.

Harry understood that being quiet and out of the way was the only option for him, for his survival. If no one knew where he was, they could not hurt him. So he began to hide. Sometimes for a couple minutes, other times a couple hours, but he was happy by himself for he was the only one he could trust. Never has Harry had a friend, or a companion, or anyone who cared about him, but that was fine because he had learnt to take care of himself at very early age and would continue to do so without complaint.

As he grew older so did Dudley and as a result, so did his anger. His frustration at the world and his relatives piled up on him every day that sometimes it would burst out uncontrollably and cause Harry to scream, to punch, to fight, anything to relieve his white-hot rage. His cousin, nearly four times the size of Harry, continued to wear at his ice thin level of patience and one day, he snapped. After being tripped halfway down the stairs, causing his face to slam into the floor, and hearing Dudley's vulgar laughter violate his ears, Harry's vision blurred as he launched himself at the other boy.

He did not feel the fists land on his chubby cousin's face, nor the bones in his fingers crack under the pressure of Dudley's thick chin. He continued to rapidly throw fist after fist, getting into a steady pattern until a scream reached his ears and he was suddenly lifted into the air and thrown heavily against the front door. His nose broke on impact and was bleeding freely down his face as he held the two shards of his now broken glasses in his bloody, broken hands.

The yells were still heard well into the night.

At the end of the shouting, Uncle Vernon held the phone in his hand and was dialling for the police when Harry told him that if any police officer entered the house, he would show them his face and tell them of the abuse he endures on a day to day basis. He had that over them, and would never hesitate to remind them if need be. From that moment on, every one of the Dursley's ignored Harry either out of fear or out of utmost contempt. From that moment on, Harry wished more than anything to be taken away from his own personalised hell.

And a few weeks ago, his wish came true.

_"Yer a wizard, Harry."_

The words still echoed in his head as if he had just heard them. The image of a ridiculously large man named Hagrid standing next to him, holding a letter out with neat green writing addressing him and informing him that he was to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on September 1st. The proof that Harry was nothing like his relatives given to him as a gift and the look of pure fright slapped on his aunt and uncle's faces. All forever embedded in his memory.

He had never been happier.

The man Hagrid had been equally as pleased when he first told Harry of his status, but Harry noted that some of the joy melted away from his beetle black eyes when Harry said nothing. But Hagrid persevered with a renewed strength in his tone as he spoke about the world of magic and the school he would soon be attending, and then about his parents. The first thing Harry ever said to him was a request, he asked to hear more of his mum and dad.

Hagrid spent the entire night recounting every detail he knew to Harry, with the boy sitting in silence and taking every word in as if he would never be able to hear them again. The only thing he did not mention was the way they had died – merely stating that they gave their lives to protect him, and how he wasn't the right person to talk about that. He did, however, elaborate just a little more claiming that Harry had a great destiny and high expectations to live up to, leaving the boy with a dense feeling in his stomach that never left him.

"Why...?" Harry muttered as he gently scrapped his nails against the glass. "What's so  _special_  about me?"

He turned his head a fraction to catch a glimpse of a remarkable snowy white owl in an iron cage, sleeping peacefully. He looked at her, a small smile appearing on his lips as reached for a plain-looking stick resting just in front of the metal bars. He picked it up and immediately felt the rippling of warmth enter his body. Phoenix feather, Pine, 12 inch exactly, Slightly Springy. His wand.

Neat, straight, smooth. Average. Exactly what Harry was after. The solid pit settled at the bottom of his chest grew every day Harry thought back the  _"Great destiny"_  and  _"High expectations"_  he was supposed to achieve and figured a wand to match those words would get him there. Dragon heartstring, Unicorn hair, Holly, Red Oak... All sounded like the type of wand for a champion, a name to live in the history books to retell their stories till the end of time.

That wasn't Harry.

So in an attempt to prove Hagrid wrong he went for the most boring looking wand he saw, believing nothing special of the Pine wand now gripped loosely in his hand. How could anyone accomplish any extraordinary deed with such an ordinary wand? He turned the wood over and admired the subtle wood grains running from tip to handle, and thought back to the day when he purchased it.

It was raining, but Harry was kept nice and dry by the enormous pink umbrella covering his and Hagrid's head. They had just travelled from Surrey to London during the late morning, needing the whole day to collect Harry's required school items. The pair stayed stuck in silence through the journey, for which Harry was grateful for until they entered an old inn with a lopsided  _The Leaky Cauldron_  hanging out front.

Hagrid had charged in, his thunderous voice ringing clear over the rain as he greeted an old gentleman. Harry stayed behind and slipped through some darker corners, hoping not to be seen. He glanced around the room, eyes darting from a lady with flaming red robes and a large pointed hat to a man dressed in a blue suit and waistcoat talking to what looked like the wall initially, but as he looked closer Harry realised that the man as conversing with a small, green twig.

Having never seen anyone from the Wizarding world aside from Hagrid, Harry was deeply intrigued by the wide array of witches and wizards presented before him.

He manoeuvred himself around a couple of empty tables and stools before being tapped on the shoulder. Harry jumped violently and quickly turned around, taking a step back as he did so.

"S-So s-sorry to s-sc-scare yo-you, Mr P-P-Potter," a young man stuttered.

Harry surveyed the man who frightened him with a critical gaze. The man was thin and nervous wearing deep purple robes which ended well past his feet. He looked to be trembling and was furiously tapping his fingers together as if worried Harry would yell at him, occasionally pushing back strands of pale blond hair from his now sweating face. Harry did feel like yelling at him and was about to were it not for a large and heavy hand slamming down on his shoulder in a friendly manner.

"'Ello, Professor Quirrell!" Hagrid's voice shot through Harry's ears.

"H-Hello, H-Hagrid," Professor Quirrell said politely, eyes darting from Harry and Hagrid, looking like he was about to run away.

"How 're ya?" Hagrid continued, smiling brightly. "What brings ya down 'ere?"

Professor Quirrell thought for a moment. "J-Just p-pop-popping in f-for a d-drink, H-Hagrid."

"Harry," Hagrid faced the boy. "This is one of yer Professors at Hogwarts."

"Hello," Harry said shortly, still looking at the young man with suspicious eyes.

Professor Quirrell managed a weak smile which vanished when Harry did not return it.

"Professor," Hagrid moved his arm to showcase Harry. "This is  _the_ –"

"So s-s-sorry, b-but I-I m-must le-leave now. G-Good d-day," Professor Quirrell said quickly before leaving the other two in a purple flash.

Harry stood staring at the spot the nervous teacher once was and knitted his eyebrows together.

 _'How did he know who I am?'_  He thought, dark suspicion edging its way into his mind.

"He's always been a bit jumpy he 'as, ever since that trip he took..." Hagrid trailed off.

Harry was burning to ask why Professor Quirrell knew him but could feel the eyes of all the other patrons who had listened to Hagrid's loud voice. He could get his answers later, right now he just needed to get out.

He grabbed at Hagrid's sleeve and tugged firmly. "Can we go get my stuff?"

"'Course we can," Hagrid ruffled Harry's already messy black hair. "Right this way!"

Harry huffed lightly under his breath and flattened his hair over the thin scar. He could never understand how he got it, the odd shape and the placement make it seem like it was a head injury—perhaps as a result of his cousin's constant attacks but Harry then remembered Hagrid's eyes flicking towards it the first time he saw him. The only other time his eyes wandered was when he told Harry that his parent's sacrificed themselves for him.

A dark thought rose in Harry but was quickly pushed aside as Hagrid all but dragged him towards the back of the building. Soon Harry was standing outside with a brick wall directly in front of him. He turned to look at Hagrid who had pulled his still dripping umbrella out and moved it up three brick and across two more before tapping the brick with the tip of the wood.

Harry's mouth fell open slightly, catching a gasp threatening to escape his throat as the wall melted away. A bright and colourful scene that was unmistakeably Diagon Alley greeted him. Buildings of all shapes and sizes lined the wide pavement which was lightly packed with witches and wizards, most accompanied by small children. The rain clouds had vanished completely as there wasn't a single grey speck in the beautiful blue sky.

"Yer got yer letter, Harry?" Hagrid asked, holding out a hand.

Harry blinked and drove his hand into his pockets, though knowing it was lying underneath his mattress.

"No ma'er, no ma'er!" Hagrid roared when he saw Harry patting the back of his trousers. "Dumbledore gave me yer list just as I was leavin'. Clever man that Dumbledore is."

He pulled out a light brown scroll and unwound it.

"I reckon' the firs' thing we should do is yer uniform," He announced, looking back at the letter. "You'll be needin' some plain black robes, a hat, some gloves, an' a win'er cloak. Easy enough, just gotta go ter Madam Malkin's."

Harry nodded and let Hagrid lead him past the few people weaving in and out of the stores. Many if not all of the children stared at Hagrid, while the adults stared at Harry. He tried to hide behind Hagrid's enormous frame as the walked further into Diagon Alley, repeatedly smoothing his hair over the right side of his forehead.

"Oh wait a momen'!" Hagrid said suddenly, stopping in his tracks and causing Harry to sidestep as to not walk into him.

"What's the matter?" Harry asked as moved his glasses back up his nose.

"You 'aven't got yer money," Hagrid explained, taking a tight left turn and walking down the lane.

Harry looked at him. "... My money?"

"Well, yer won't be buyin' nuffin without some gold in yer pockets!" Hagrid joked and clapped his hands together.

"But the Dursley's—" Harry began.

"Don' need none of  _their_  money," Hagrid interrupted with a small grimace. "Muggle money don' work 'ere."

"I see." Harry finished. "Then where...?"

Harry's question was answered just as he asked it. Standing before him was the largest building he had ever seen. It was made of pure white marble with gold trim along the bottom and just above the entry stating:  _Gringotts Wizarding Bank_.

"Did ya really think yer parents didn' leave ya nuffin'?" Hagrid said, jolting Harry from his trance.

"Well..." Harry muttered. "My aunt and uncle never talk about them."

"Oh." Hagrid's face fell. "Right. Well then..."

Before the silence got too intense, Harry opened his mouth to ask more about his parents but was swiftly covered by Hagrid's loud voice.

"On we go then, Harry." He directed Harry towards the heavy wooden doors and pushed them open.

Inside was the strangest scene Harry had ever set his eyes upon. Dozens and dozens of tiny people were perched high above on golden seats, some looking down at him while others continued with their work. The people had a long pointed nose and sharp looking teeth, appearing more like a hybrid than a full human.

"Goblins," Hagrid said heavily into Harry's ear.

Harry looked up in shock but said nothing after receiving Hagrid's gaze.

After an uncomfortable conversation with the Goblin at the front of the desk and a rush of eyes leering at him as soon as his name was declared, Harry followed Hagrid and the Goblin to a door where the vaults were stored.

Roughly an hour later, the two left Gringotts with Harry's pockets stuffed to the brim with a mixture of golden Galleons, silver Sickles, and bronze Knuts. He had never seen this much money before and certainly had not had so much on his person. He would never let the Dursley's know, Uncle Vernon would have to pry the coins from him... As if he could try.

"Sorry 'bout that, Harry," Hagrid said softly. "For ignoring ya. Goblins aren't the nicest folk 'round an' it better to not upset 'em. Get outta their way as fast as ya can."

Harry shrugged, he had not thought the other man was ignoring him during their short time in the bank, for he greatly preferred silence over small talk—even with Hagrid.

"Wen' in there the other day," Hagrid continued with more enthusiasm. "special favour to Dumbledore. Wanted me to pick somethin' up from vault 7-1-3. Real important it is."

Harry stood still, hoping for Hagrid to continue.

"Don' even know what for, jus' a plain rock is all." Hagrid finished, seemingly unaware he was rambling.

 _'What type of rock could be so important that it needs to be stored in a bank?'_  Harry mused silently, the gears in his mind at work.

"Well then!" Hagrid clapped, yanking Harry from his thoughts. "Off ta Madam Malkin's then."

The rest of the day was spent ticking each thing off Harry's school list. Robes, gloves, a pointed hat, a cauldron, a set of crystal vials and brass scales, and a telescope were all slowly crossed off as the hours passed. His pockets had become significantly lighter though looking back at everything he now owned, it was money well spent. The final things he had left to buy were the required textbooks and his very own wand.

A constant factor of the shopping spree was the fact that most of Harry's items had a large discount or in some cases were completely free. Occasionally the shopkeepers would add a couple extra items free of charge too, such as a couple more vials or another quill. While he was not ungrateful for the added bonuses, he was still deeply suspicious and slightly irritated that every time he received a gift a pair of eyes followed, wandering to the right side of his head—searching greedily for his scar even with it covered protected under his messy hair. He had no idea why people were so interested in him, but he didn't like it. Every time he tried to bring it up with Hagrid, the other man averted his eyes and rambled on loudly about something else as if he had not heard Harry. That was the most infuriating thing of all.

Before Harry entered the bookshop  _Florets & Blotts_ he decided to purchase a trunk he spotted in the front of the shop where he bought his telescope. He eyed the sleek black wood with desire and new that it would reduce his already shrunken wallet but he did not care. He gave the equipment in his arms to Hagrid and told him where he was going, then walked back a couple blocks to where the quirky building sat and entered.

The trunk took out most of the remaining coins he was carrying, even after the owner reduced the price as Harry knew would happen, but he had been so transfixed by the enchanting case that he did not mind. It's highly polished wood reflected everything cleanly like the surface of a pristine lake and it evoked a strong feeling of peace, a pleasant serenity. He had not noticed the subtle carvings when he saw it through the window of the shop, but being so close it now he could make out diamond shapes covering the lid, resembling scales. Simple and elegant.

Harry had never owned something as stunning as this trunk, and he loved the feeling of having something to his name as splendid as this. The small fortune his parents left him was also a nice feeling – knowing that he was financially secure, one less thing to worry about in his life. Harry flicked the sliver lock and opened the lid, reaching out to touch the rich velvet inside and stroking it very gently with the tips of his fingers as if it were a priceless artefact.

"That's a nice trunk."

Harry jumped slightly and quickly closed the lid with a light thud. Standing in front of him was a boy with white-blond hair and a pointed nose, around the same age as Harry. His grey eyes were fixed on the black wood, eyes tracing the carved lines with intrigue.

"Thank you," Harry said, tensing as he stood.

"Father used to have one just like it," the boy said, tearing his gaze away to make eye contact with Harry.

Harry was surprised to see that the grey eyes did not search his head for the thin scar firmly hidden behind his black hair, and eased slightly.

"He said his used to belong to Merlin himself," the boy continued. "But even I don't believe that. Neither did any of the guests he showed."

_Merlin?_

"You know, most people don't realise that he was a Slytherin," the boy said with swelling pride. "The great Merlin himself, a proud Slytherin. That the house I'll be in, I know it. My father was, and his before, and so on."

_Slytherin?_

"One of the best wizards to have ever attended Hogwarts!" The boy declared passionately, his mouth curving into a large smile. "Ambitious, cunning, clever—Pureblood too of course."

After hearing the boy mention Hogwarts, Harry felt able to piece together the odd code the boy was speaking in.

 _'Merlin,'_   _he thought quickly._ _'_ _A_ _student at Hogwarts in... house Slytherin. That must be a way to organise students...'_

Harry had no real knowledge of Hogwarts, Hagrid choosing to instead describe his own experiences and his job as gamekeeper and completely skipping the bare essentials of the schooling system. But by this point, Harry felt he had enough understanding to join the conversation but before he opened his mouth a woman's voice called out from around the corner and the other boy rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Mother!" the boy called back. "Well, see you then."

And he was gone.

Harry watched as the tail ends of the boy's dark green robes flutter in the wind while he rounded the corner to where the boy's mother was undoubtedly waiting. He barely had time to process what had just happened before Hagrid bounded toward him, his arms still filled with all of Harry's school items.

"Harry!" the large man exclaimed, worry laced in his tone. "You been gone fer ages! What—? Oh, what a beau'iful trunk you got there!"

Hagrid moved to put all of Harry's equipment into the trunk and whistled loudly.

"I 'ope you didn' spend  _all_ yer money on that!" Hagrid said with a smile tugging on his lips. "Looks like yer gonna be buyin' yer books second hand!"

Harry smiled back, too happy with his new trunk to focus on the light scolding he received. He did not mind having second-hand books, he was all too familiar with renting books from Primary School, and sometimes discovering useful notes inside.

Harry tugged his now nearly full trunk to the bookshop and spent the remainder of the sunlight purchasing each book from his long list in the second-hand pile at the back. It was dark when Harry and Hagrid exited  _Florets & Blotts_ and was getting tired, and a little frustrated after having Hagrid haggle for the books  _Hogwarts: A History_  and  _Magic Drafts and Potions_  with limited success until he repeated Harry's name to the wizard behind the counter when he thought Harry wasn't paying attention, and the price was reduced immediately.

"Miserable ol' bat," Hagrid grumbled as they left the store, the stack of books in his arms. "How did in the world could he not recognise ya? Goin' blind, I tell ya. Funny fer a bookkeeper!"

Harry just sighed, too exhausted to reply, and rubbed his eyes, skewing his glasses as a result. For once actually wanted to return back to Privet Drive so he could get some much-needed rest.

"Last up, yer wand," Hagrid announced, sounding just as tired as Harry felt and indicating to the shop at the end of the corner.

Harry fixed his glasses back up his nose, careful not to disturb the piece of tape binding both halves together as he looked at the building lying at the end of Hagrid's large finger. The tall thin structure was void of all light, all curtains drawn and the chimney was emitting no smoke. It looked deserted.

"It's closed," he said blankly.

"Nah." Hagrid shook his shaggy head. "Tha's just the way Ollivander shows he's dealin' with a customer at the momen'. We just gotta wait a couple more..."

Right on cue, Harry spotted a small girl skipping away from the store with her arms held close to her chest. He watched her reach what he assumed were her parents before Hagrid tapped him roughly on the shoulder. Harry's eyes followed the thick arm up to the finger and saw that the building the girl just exited from had lit up in a warm, golden glow and thick grey smoke was puffing from the wonky chimney.

Harry rushed to follow Hagrid who was already a few steps away from the door. By the time he made it, Hagrid had already pounded on the door.

"'Cuse me, Mr Ollivander?" He said in his booming voice.

The door opened but Harry could not see anything as Hagrid's figure took up the entire door frame. By the sound of the voice, Ollivander was a polite, elderly man.

"Off yer go, Harry."

And suddenly Hagrid moved and nearly tossed him in the store, allowing Harry to fully observe the ageing wizard standing just in front of him. As Harry's eyes flicked to the man's features, his did the same back at him and suddenly Harry felt very self-conscious.

Ollivander said something Harry was not paying attention to and bowed. He gave a small smile in return and gripping his hands together tightly.

Then Hagrid's voice called out and the door closed.

Before long, Harry rushed out of the store, rage bubbling up inside of him. Why did people have to keep looking at his scar? Why did Ollivander mention his parents? How much did he know about them? What did everyone else know that he did not? After an entire day's worth of these mysteries swarming Harry's head with no answers, he was pushed to the breaking point. He was going to force Hagrid to tell him exactly why people thought he was so extraordinary, force him to talk about his parents, force him to give Harry  _whatever_ information he needed. He held his new wand tightly and took a few calming breaths, which all failed.

However, his anger turned to surprise as he spun around and watched as Hagrid stood on the opposite side of the pavement holding a dark cage with something white inside, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a great dopey smile spread on his face.

"'Ere ya go, Harry!" Hagrid said brightly as he spotted him and gave the cage a small shake. "A late birthday gift, from me. Was gon' get a cake fer ya, but reckon this was be'er fer yer schooling things."

Harry took a step closer and all thought of his scar and his parents vanished because inside the cage was a small, snowy owl. It was looking around with it's large, warm amber eyes and hooted when they landed on Harry.

"She's a girl!" Hagrid said, handing the cage with more vigour than the bird liked. "Best ya outta know 'fore ya name 'er."

Harry put his wand in his pocket, eyes fixed on those staring back at him, and took the cage with both hands. The owl hooted again and puffed her chest a slight amount as if she was asking for praise.

"She's  _beautiful_ ," Harry whispered. "Thank you, Hagrid."

Hagrid waved a large hand and shrugged, still wearing his big grin. "Yer welcome!"

With all his school items and a couple of extras, Hagrid took Harry home and promised to come back—as he did when they first met, and take him to Hogwarts.

That was nearly two weeks ago, and every day since Harry has been sitting by the window in his room watching anxiously for Hagrid's promised return. For the past three days, Harry had packed everything he would be taking to Hogwarts with him, which was only his required school gear as nothing he could ever receive Number 4 Privet Drive would worth anything to him. Not while he has the whole Wizarding World at his disposal.

Harry sighed and his gaze landed back on the sleeping bird confined to her metal cage.

"Soon Hedwig," Harry whispered softly. "Soon we'll both be flying free."

A massive shadow appeared towards the left of the street and Harry knew this was the moment he was waiting for. The moment where he is able to leave the place he'd been forced to call home for the last eleven years, in favour of a new one.

_Hogwarts._


	3. Travelling by Train

"Ronald Bilius Weasley get down here _NOW_! We are late enough as it is!"

A tall, lanky boy with bright hair and freckles chucked the few remaining pairs of socks from his hands and into a faded trunk, rolling his eyes at his mother's shrieking voice. His eyes landed on a small photograph lying face up on his small desk shoved in the corner of his room, watching as nine faces smiled and waved up at him, all with identical flaming red hair. He picked up the moving image, his gaze landing on a face resembling his own but slightly younger and rounder.

It was an old picture of the Weasley family, displaying all seven children and parents proudly.

Ron stared down at his own face for a moment longer, then slowly scanning across each of his siblings, then his parents. The photo had been taken two years earlier to the day when his eldest brother, Bill, had been awarded Head Boy for Hogwarts, the badge gleaming boldly on his puffed out chest. His parent's had been so proud, and their pride only increasing as their next eldest son, Charlie, became Quidditch Captain, and their third, Percy, just recently received his Prefect's Badge and was on the way to becoming Head Boy too.

Ron was the fifth eldest in his family, as his two older brothers were twins, Fred and George, and a younger sister, Ginny. Having such a large family left him constantly feeling the mounting pressure to live up to his older brother's accomplishments, something that never seemed to affect the twins. He was to start his first year at Hogwarts, having turned eleven in March, and has allowed his nerves to take over his body and mind for the better part of the year. He was so nervous to attend his first year at the wizarding school, his magic weakened to the point where he wasn't even sure he had it at times.

"Ron!"

He jumped at the call of his name and dropped the photo as he rushed to fill his trunk with a few last minute items, a hand-knitted scarf, a couple pairs of pyjama tops and old pants, before closing the lid and locking it shut.

"Hurry up we need to—! Fred, you stop that right __NOW__ , mister!"

Ron smirked as he thought of what his brother might be doing downstairs to annoy their mother so, not that it took much. As he hurried down the near endless crooked steps with his trunk thumping loudly behind him, the voice of his mother became more clear.

"George stop whining, it's nearly all out!"

Ron rushed to the bottom step, his trunk landing heavily behind him as he entered a cramped kitchen piled high with dirty plates and used pots. He let out a woof of laughter as his brother George had his red hair covered completely with pale pink chewing gum and his mother, a short, plump woman scrubbed viciously at the sticky pink substance, her own red hair dancing with poorly hidden fury.

"It was an accident, Mum," George's twin said, his eyes dancing with mirth.

"Just you wait," Mrs Weasley growled, ripping out a good chunk of George's hair.

Ron screwed his face up as a wad of pink gum fell on the counter, red hairs sticking out from all angles.

He crept up behind his brother, who was barely containing his chuckles. "Nice one, Fred."

Fred winked at him while their mother wasn't looking.

"We'll be lucky if we can even get on the train!" Mrs Weasley said angrily, rinsing her son's head clean. "The gate closes at __exactly__ 11 o'clock you know, Fred."

"Yes, Mother," Fred replied with forced shame.

Still smiling, Ron lugged his trunk out the front door to the garden, passing his brother Percy on the way.

"Children..." He heard him mutter with slight disgust, polishing a large badge in his hands.

Ron glared at the back of Percy's head as he continued to walk past.

 _'_ _ _You're only fifteen,'__ Ron thought bitterly. __'__ _ _S__ _ _top acting older than you are.__ _ _Twat__ _ _.'__

He dropped his trunk on the grass beside a light blue Ford Anglia, where a man with matching hair to the rest of the family, though slightly balding, was pacing in front and checking a chipped pocket watch frequently.

"Hi, Dad," Ron greeted, moving towards the back of the car and popping open the boot.

"Oh, Ron!" Mr Weasley gasped and straightened his glasses. "Good, where are the others? We're very behind schedule."

"Mum's washing George's hair," Ron explained, moving to grip his trunk with both hands.

Mr Weasley raised his eyebrows. "Why?"

"Fred," Ron answered simply, not even attempting to hide his grin.

"Ah..." Mr Weasley said weakly and stepped forward just as Ron gripped his trunk. "Here, let me help you, son."

With their combined efforts, the trunk was effortlessly lifted into the back of the car. It wasn't a large trunk, but it wasn't a large car either yet it looked as if there was still plenty of space.

"Dad," Ron asked, peering into the boot. "How will is this gonna—?"

"Molly!" Mr Weasley called out. "We need to go!"

"Coming, darling!" Mrs Weasley's shrill voice replied from inside the house.

"Dad," Ron asked again. "How are we going to—?"

"Right, Ginny," Mr Weasley said to a young girl who was skipping towards the pair. "you'll be in the front with me and your mother."

"OK!" Ginny chirped happily, hopping into the car.

"Wait—why is __she__ coming?" Ron questioned gruffly. "She's not even going to Hogwarts this year."

"Shut up, Ron!" Ginny screeched in a strong tone of jealousy.

"Ginny," Mr Weasley scolded lightly. "You wouldn't want your mother hearing you say something like that, would you now?"

Ginny just huffed and stomped into the car, slamming the door closed, though not before sticking her middle finger up at Ron.

"Did you __see__ her—?" Ron tried to say but was interrupted by his mother's yells yet again.

"Just leave him alone and go get your trunk!"

"He started it!" Fred or George's distant voice cried back.

" _ _I DON'T CARE!__ " Roared Mrs Weasley. " _JUST MOVE IT THE BOTH OF YOU!_ "

"Oh boy..." Ron heard his father mutter under his breath.

Five minutes later, the whole Weasley family was packed into the Ford Anglia. Mr Weasley driving with his wife and only daughter seated comfortably next to him, the seat magically extended to fit all three in the front. At the back of the car sat Fred and George behind the driver's seat, chatting wildly about what pranks they were going to pull when they got to school—obviously ignoring the morning's events entirely. Next to the twins was a very uncomfortable Percy who was holding a rather large textbook mere inches from his nose, occasionally pushing his horn-rimmed glasses back up his nose and shooting the twins a disapproving look. Then there was Ron, staring out the window to watch the clouds pass and trying not to faint from the nerves building quickly in his stomach.

Before long they arrived at their destination, Kings Cross Station.

As the final trunk was pulled from the small blue car, Mrs Weasley slipped a lumpy package into Ron's hand.

"Your lunch, dear," she explained with a tired smile.

Ron repressed a grimace and returned the smile, placing the package in his pocket. "Thanks, Mum."

She patted his cheek before turning around to yell at Fred and George for stealing Percy's book.

"Right you lot!" Mr Weasley called out to his family. "Train leaves in ten minutes, let's go."

The Weasley's picked their belongings up and weaved through the busy station to find the right platform, ignoring the strange looks from people walking by.

Ron thought to himself as he watched the signs counting down, waiting for the infamous _Platform 9 and ¾._

13... 12... 11... 10...

"Here we are!" Mr Weasley announced. "Right, Percy you first."

Percy nodded and ran straight into the wall separating Platform 10 and Platform 9.

Ron watched as his brother's red hair vanished from sight. He listened as the twins complained about being called the wrong name but let his eyes wander. He scanned the increasingly populated area, wondering if anyone would notice if a family of red-head children suddenly disappeared from the station. But it had never been an issue before, so why would it be now?

His gaze flickered towards a small boy, around his age. He was a pale, skinny boy with messy black hair and a ridiculously over-sized shirt hanging from his small frame. Though he was obviously trying to hide it, Ron could tell that the boy was scared. He was all alone, holding an iron cage hosting a white owl in one hand, and a letter in the other, with a black trunk at his feet. Ron's eyes widened as he recognised the paper. He had read it nearly a million times after he had received his by owl-post and knew it like the back of his freckled hand.

_The boy was going to Hogwarts._

Ron's heart was pounding. This was his moment, a chance for him to prove himself a capable wizard as he could show the poor Muggle-born boy how to get to the Hogwarts Express and explain everything he himself already knew about the Wizarding World. Just when we had gathered the courage to walk towards the lonely boy, his mother yanked his arm.

"Ron!" she said loudly. "What are you—oh dear!"

She had obviously seen the boy Ron was about to impress, standing on his own and now looking up at the clock with a worried expression.

"Poor boy doesn't know what he's doing," Mrs Weasley whispered. "Off you go, Ron. I'll take care of him."

And suddenly he was pushed forward, now facing the brick wall with his father indicating to hop through. He sighed deeply and ran forth, squinting his eyes as a flash of light shone brightly on the other side of the wall.

A scarlet steam engine was parked on the tracks, but thick clouds of white smoke began puffing as Ron carried his trunk over to the baggage compartment. He turned his head back to the wall he had just walked through and saw a flash of black hair and pale skin, but then he was gone again—lost in the sea of parents and students saying their farewells. Ron swallowed his disappointment and walked towards the train entrance when someone slapped him hard on the back.

"Here ya go, Ron," Fred said brightly, handing him a fat, brown rat.

"Scabbers!" Ron yelped with joy.

"Mum forgot to give him to you this morning," Fred explained. "Seeing as you took your time coming down the stairs."

Ron shot him an angry look as he snatched the rat from his brother's hand, the animal visibly relaxing the moment he was placed in Ron's care.

"Anyway!" Fred clapped his hands together and smiled widely. "Here's a spell for ya, just poke the tip of your wand on his back and say: _S_ _ _unshine, daisies, butter, mellow, turn this stupid fat rat yellow!__ "

Ron laughed while Scabbers squeaked quietly.

"See ya, little bro." Fred waved before leaving Ron standing in the entryway alone holding a rat now miraculously sleeping a very deep sleep.

"Excuse me," a boy said grumpily, shoving Ron aside as he pushed his way into the train.

Ron glared at the back of the boy's head before entering the train and searching for a compartment to sit in, hopefully, an empty one. He walked along the train, peering through the windows of each compartment, his heart sinking as most people caught his eye and moved to lock the door. He shuffled around trying not to stumble as the train had just left the station. He walked past every compartment before making it to the very back of the train, the compartment on the left full with a bunch of giggling girls Ron really didn't want to be anywhere near, leaving him with the last compartment he could take. There was only one person inside—the lost boy from Kings Cross Station.

Ron gently knocked and cleared his throat as he slid the door open.

"'Cuse me, everywhere else is full. Mind if I sit here?"

The boy jerked his head up and gripped his plain looking wand tightly in his lap. His bright green eyes piercing Ron behind his tapped together glasses, making him flush deeply. It was a few seconds before the boy spoke.

"Fine," he said in a quiet but clear voice.

Ron flashed him a smile which the boy didn't return. He staggered to a seat opposite the boy whose eyes never left his figure.

"Ah," Ron said weakly. "M-My name's Ron."

"... Harry," Harry replied in the same tone as before.

"My Mum," Ron started. "She's the lady who came to help you find the platform."

Harry looked like he was trying to remember Mrs Weasley then spoke a soft, "Oh."

Ron stared at him with a strange expression. Maybe it was because his family were loud maniacs, but Ron had never encountered someone so socially awkward and introverted in his life. He wondered what type of family the boy had. He wondered if they valued peace and quiet, unlike his own.

"So what do your parents do?" he asked.

Harry shrugged. "They're dead."

"I-I'm sorry!" Ron squeaked. "I didn't – I mean I..."

Harry merely shrugged again, still fixing Ron with a steady gaze.

Ron stared at his hands, his rat now snoring in a high pitched tone.

"Wanna see a trick?" he asked Harry, pulling out his wand.

Harry didn't answer but looked slightly interested.

Ron cleared his throat and pointed the tip of the wand to the sleeping rat. " _ _Sunshine, daisies, butter, mellow, turn this stupid fat rat yellow!__ "

A loud sizzling sound rang from the wand but did no more than shower the rat in a low amber light, stirring but not waking it.

Ron turned purple. But Harry laughed quietly.

"My brother Fred told me that right before I got on the train..." Ron said quickly, feeling the need to explain himself. "The git was smiling so he probably expected this to happen. M'sorry."

Harry was now twirling his own wand between his fingers, eyeing the rat.

"You wanna give it a try?" Ron offered, holding the rat out towards him.

"I've never used magic before," Harry muttered quietly. "Not on purpose anyway."

"Don't worry," Ron reassured, feeling more confident as he finally found someone who wasn't as good at magic as he was. "It's way easy. Just point your wand and repeat what I just said. But don't expect anything great to come from a spell Fred taught you."

Harry stared for a little while before slowly reaching out and grasping the rat, which was still sound asleep. He pointed the tip above the brown back of the rat and said uttered the spell very quickly. Nothing happened. Harry looked out the window as he dropped the rat on the seat next to him, his jaw set firmly and eyes locked on the passing landscape.

"Don't worry," Ron repeated, smiling slightly and his heart soaring at the scene in front of him. "You'll get the hang of it soon."

Harry continued to gaze out to the distance, refusing to look back at Ron's happy face and the pair sat in silence for a long time—longer than Ron was comfortable with. His smile faded almost as soon as finished speaking, noting Harry's posture and stern expression. He didn't know how to react. Should he try and console him? Talk his way out of the mood the other boy seemed to be in? Ron had never been good with words, or feelings, or anything really...

In the end, he stayed silent, looking around the small compartment and occasionally chancing a glance back to Harry who's position never changed, barely seeming to breath or blink. He tapped his wand against his thigh, shooting a shower of brown dust out the tip when a sudden knock echoed through the room.

"Anything from the trolley, dears?" An elderly witch called out sweetly.

Ron shook his head, shrinking back in his seat as he placed a hand over his pocket where his lumpy lunch was.

Harry finally turned around to look at the witch, who was smiling down at the boys. Ron heard him gasp softly and turned his head, watching curiously as Harry's eyes raked over the mountain of sweets and treats piled up on a cart next to the witch. Ron too was now goggling over the range of sweets presented in front of him, recognising the boxes of Chocolate Frogs—his personal favourite, and staring hopelessly at them.

"The Chocolate Frogs are the best," Ron told Harry with a sad note in his voice. "If you were wondering what to get..."

He watched as Harry felt around in his pocket then nodded at the witch. "Two Chocolate Frogs, please."

The witch grabbed two pentagon shaped boxes and held them out in her hand.

"Two Sickles, dear." She said politely.

Harry dropped two silver coins in her open palm in exchange for the boxes.

She bowed slightly before closing the door and leaving the boys alone again. Ron looked at Harry curiously, wondering if he bought them to share or to gloat. A nasty feeling began bubbling up inside him as he prepared for the latter event to occur.

Harry caught his eye. "I'll give you this if you can teach me some magic."

"Deal!" Ron leapt up and grabbed the box excitedly, lumpy package completely wiped from his mind.

He tore into the packaging, finding a moving frog the colour of milk chocolate hopping around. He grabbed as the frog jumped from the box before freezing, becoming a block for Ron to eat. He shoved the whole frog into his mouth, cheeks bulging as he savoured every chew.

Harry stared in shock at what he just saw.

"Jus' open the box an' let it 'ump," Ron explained with his mouth stuffed to the brim. "then 'll be 'ike a normal 'iece of 'ocolate."

Ron swallowed the rest of his sweet before Harry began gently ripping the edges of the box open. He carefully pried apart the two halves of the box and almost dropped it as the frog shuffled around, ready to spring. Harry just managed to catch the frog as it attempted it's leap for freedom, instantly turning into a solid mass.

"Now it's just like a normal chocolate bar," Ron repeated more clearly, wiping his mouth free of a trail of saliva that escaped his mouth.

Harry took a tentative bite of the frog's head, chewing a bit before taking a bigger bite.

"There you go!" Ron laughed, grabbing his torn box and pulling a small card with a woman printed in the middle. "Damn, I got Hufflepuff again..."

Harry was halfway through his frog when he picked his own card up. "Dumbledore?"

"Oh, that's a great one to have!" Ron said excitedly. "George has about six of him."

"Why?" Harry asked as he surveyed the card closely.

Ron sputtered. "Only the cos he's the greatest wizard of all time! __And__ our new Headmaster!"

"I see." Harry took another nibble of his frog before choking and holding up his now blank card. "Where'd he go?"

"Probably preparing for us new arrivals," Ron answered casually, not noticing Harry's awestruck tone. "Can't expect him to stick around all day, can you?"

"What do you..." But Harry trailed off, shaking his head as he pocketed the card and looked back at Ron. "What other spells do you know?"

Ron held his wand and thought for a moment. "My dad did teach us all how to send red sparks up when we were little in case we ever got lost somewhere. Wanna do that?"

Harry nodded, his face plain but his eyes lighting up with excitement behind his circular lenses.

The two boys spent the next couple of hours sending, at first, multi-coloured sparks in the air as Harry slowly learnt how to control his magic before specifying to a shining red light. Eventually, the whole compartment was lighting up every other second, flashing brightly with colour, then normal, then brightening once more. Laughter echoed through the small room as each boy took it in turns to bounce their sparks off the window, while the other tried to catch it.

Without warning, the compartment door flew open and a wave of wind diminished all source of light.

"Breaking the rules already, are we Ronald?" Percy said tartly, his wand pointing in the air between Ron and Harry. "Keep this up and I'll be writing a letter straight to Mother."

"What rules?" Ron asked gruffly.

Percy shook his head. "Underage wizards are not allowed to use magic, and you know this Ronald."

"It's Ron," Ron corrected harshly. "And what about you? You just used magic right now!"

"I," Percy growled, pointed to his chest where a highly polished silver badge with a purple 'P' was pinned. "Am a __Prefect__. And you'll do well to remember that. Once you're sorted, I'll be able to remove house points if you continue to act like a brat, even if it is from my own house."

Ron fumed and folded his arms, looking out the window while Harry gazed at Percy with squinted eyes.

"Anyway," Percy continued triumphantly. "We'll be arriving shortly so you two better but your robes on."

He moved to close the door but stopped to point a finger at Ron. "And no more magic... __Ronald__."

"IT’S _RON!_ " Ron screamed as Percy left.

Tension filled the air like water on a sinking boat, and the boys sat in still silence once more. Ron was struggling to control his breathing and blinked furiously from time to time, while Harry had a calculating look on his face. After a long minute had passed, did Harry speak.

"I don't like him," he said blankly.

Ron scoffed. "Join the club!"

"Who is he?" Harry questioned.

"Percy, my brother. The Great Gryffindor Prefect.," Ron added snarkily.

"Gryffindor...?" Harry murmured quietly, eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

Ron huffed and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, my whole family has been sorted into Gryffindor. Me too, I guess."

Harry turned a pale pink as he realised Ron had heard him but quickly composed himself. "So why don't you want to be in Gryffindor?"

Ron jumped, looking alarmed. "I never said that!"

"Well, your _t_ _ _one__ said it," Harry explained, his voice rising ever so slightly.

"I... I just don't think I'd fit in there, or any house really," Ron admitted quietly, colour blooming over his freckled features.

Harry raised his eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because... Because I'm not brave like Gryffindor or smart like Ravenclaw—don't even get me started on Slytherin. The only thing left is the Puffs and they're... Well, y’know..." Ron trailed off looking lost.

"But," Harry said in a calculating tone. "Merlin was in Slytherin."

Ron let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, and about a __million__ evil witches and wizards too."

Harry stayed silent, seeming to process Ron's statement with great interest.

"I wouldn't be surprised if I was rejected completely," Ron said, his head falling limply into his hands.

He gripped his hair tightly and fought back the steaming pressure of tears steadily building in his eyes. He would __not__ cry in front of the other boy—in front of anyone. Never. He took a couple of shaky breaths as he desperately willed his eyes to dry. After a few moments, Ron heard the slight shuffling of movement and sniffed sharply as he felt a light tap on his shoulder. Peering up, he saw a wicked smile appearing on Harry's face and his wand held in hand. Sooner than Ron could speak, a shower of red sparks rained down on him, melting away before hitting the ground. He grinned and picked his own wand up, returning the favour and producing a thick could of glittering ruby red above Harry's head, pausing for a moment before dumping down in a heap.

Their childish glee rang throughout the train, but no one ever came by to stop it, and before either boy knew it the train had stilled and movement surrounded them from outside the compartment.

They had arrived.


	4. Deception, Preservation, Power

Glittering gold and big blue ribbons dominated the shelves, while sparkling silver specks were sparingly spaced. Hidden and protected behind large glass sheets a girl stood, admiring. Her eyes skimmed along each row, memorised by the enchanting carvings and designs of the trophies proudly displayed. The scent of window cleaner burnt her nose and the bright reflected light made her eyes water but it was worth it to stand among the best, the great, the winners. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the cool surface, ignoring the part of her scolding for smudging the glass, and imagining her name covering all those she just saw, sighing with deep pleasure.

Prestige.

 _"Hi, there!"_  the girl's voice called out confidently.

A curious mind, eager spirit, strong will... Closed heart.

 _"I find that I open my heart to things I believe in,"_  she responded.

Oozing with confidence and high self-esteem... A hint of arrogance?

 _"If arrogance is the price to pay for pride, then I'll happily take it,"_  the girl said as if she's had to repeat the statement many times over.

Intense ambition—books and knowledge the source no doubt. However, loyalty and bravery are left relatively undiscovered. Not in the forefront of the brain, not instinctual values to represent the personality.

 _"I'm loyal to what I believe is right, and I feel that bravery comes naturally to me. There you go," s_ he explained simply.

Lies are not able to hide, everything is laid out and ready to be observed. Bravery is not a strength—unlike self-preservation. Survival is essential.

 _"Ah... I'm sorry?"_  the girl said with a stunned tone.

Questioning authority and living permanently stuck to personal views when anything attempts to contradict... A difficult soul to turn, a difficult soul to change. Nothing short of an extraordinary act could sway a heart so full of determination and defiance. A challenge.

 _"Oh..."_  she whispered in the same tone as before, seemingly stuck in a trance.

Dedication will show itself with due time and will be an invaluable asset. Patience is the only key.

 _"I understand,"_  she replied quietly, waiting obediently for a response.

A few moments passed without a sound as if to test the girl before a picture of a room entered her mind.

Students sitting at their desks inside a classroom, clapping lavishly at a boy standing at the front of the room. A woman—the teacher handing him a gleaming gold trophy with the words  _Top Academic_  carved in the bottom followed by the boy's name. Fellow classmates beamed up at him, pride beyond belief for their friend. His bright smile lit the room as every single student praised him with their hands, except one. The girl rushed with fury written on her face, came within inches of the boy and grabbed the trophy out of his hands. She threw it with all her might across the room and out the closed window. The echoes of shattering glass was deafening, as was the outraged cries from both the boy and the teacher.

Jealousy.

 _"He deserved it,"_  the girl stated voice laced with exceptional volumes of disgust.  _"I worked twice as hard as him! I deserved that award more than he did. It wasn't fair."_

Injustice. A strong trigger, often the cause of significant events and actions. Though, an inability to face the truth is a reckless habit for it installs a false sense of superiority and confidence.

 _"He just got his dad to finish all his assignments for him, I know he did."_  She sniffed.  _"I did mine all on my own. How is_ that _not facing the truth?"_

Driven by spite and determination, a dangerously effective combination for many—especially enemies.

 _"I'm not dangerous..."_  she hesitated for a split moment.  _"And what drives me is my own determination only, not spite."_

Truth is not embedded in belief. It does not care for people or particular persons, it will cut through every mask and light every shadow. Nothing is sacred, nothing is safe when penetrated by the lens of truth.

 _"I'm not spiteful,"_  the girl repeated, however seeming unsure of herself.

Lies are not able to hide.

Before the girl could reply, yet another series of events began to play.

Inside a room much like the first, but this time the girl was sitting at a desk with a wall of books around—protecting her. Her eyes were skimming frantically over the words. The words had all blurred together into one solid black mass, but the photos remained crystal clear. Pictures of people stood stark from the paper in unnatural and grotesque positions, the colour red was the only detail the girl seemed to register as if it had burnt its way into her head. She read like she was about to be torn away from the books like she knew she wasn't supposed to be reading books such as these like she was gathering as much information as quickly as possible—planning.

Temptation.

 _"S-Stop!"_  the girl shrieked.

Constantly learning, knowing, understanding how to defeat any enemy that may stand in the way. A girl so often ridiculed and shunned, determined to eliminate all competition and be admired by them all—at ease with any action that will allow success.

 _"I-I—"_  she stuttered.  _"I can explain!"_

A desire to destroy the ones standing opposed. Pure, cold, calculated. Icy logic flows through the veins of those unwilling to spare a thought for another, off-putting fixation on evidence and verification.

 _"I care about people!"_  she said desperately.  _"I-I don't want to hurt anyone! Just let me—"_

Hiding in the shadows, awaiting the perfect opportunity to strike.

 _"I don't hide!"_  the girl replied harshly, desperation gone and replaced with insulted anger.  _"Please! I just want to—"_

Knowledge is control. Control is deception. Deception is success.

 _"No!"_  Panic returned to her voice. _"I mean—I do think that, but I-I don't want..."_

Success at all costs.

 _"I-I-I..."_  the girl attempted to come up with an excuse for her previous actions, but nothing came and she trailed off into a lost silence.

Darkness fell once more and after what seemed like an eternity, a single word was announced.

* * *

A boy lay on a small bed, cramped thoughtlessly in the tiny space of the cupboard under a set of stairs. Spiders scuttled back and forth along the ceiling, almost like a dance. The boy's eyes fell on an intricate web recently spun in the top left corner, transfixed on the delicate pattern and precise detailing. The boy sat up and reached his hand out, allowing a long-legged spider to crawl on his finger. It dangled upside down for a moment before gently lowering itself, descending from the rope of its own making. He moved his hand so that the spider was swaying slightly right in front of his face, and smiled as it ticked left and right like the hands of a clock.

Peace.

 _"What am I supposed to do?"_  the boy muttered quietly.

A split soul, unsure of where to go and what paths to take. Slow to move, cautious and deliberate.

 _"Who was that?"_  he asked sharply.

Suspicious nature, though a mindful manner.

 _"... You're explaining who I am."_  the boy correctly stated.  _"I'm talking to you. Not really—magic."_

A practical mind, effective and efficient. Perception is a key trait, vital for those more withdrawn and quiet. Courage and devotion both hold merit, important and valued traits.

 _"O-K,"_  he said slowly, taking time to process the words.

However, only a thin shield separates logic and emotion, concealed under the surface lies a tsunami that waits impatiently to free itself from the restraints so carelessly crafted.

 _"How so?"_  the boy asked boldly.

The question was answered shortly with a flash of darkness.

It was pitch black. Humid, stale air filled the boy's lungs as he heard the joyous cries from others outside, separated from him by a locked door. Trapped. Forced to listen and imagine what happiness would feel like. He felt faint, having not eaten for longer than he could remember, and tried to calm his racing heart. The small grate on the top of the door flicked open presenting itself like jail bars, and a fat face came into view. A piece of meat replaced the face and swung back and forth, causing the boy's stomach to rumble desperately. Vile chortles erupted, wild with malice, as the boy punched the grate with all his might. It shook slightly then swiftly shut, the cruel sound of mirth echoed loudly alongside a second noise from his stomach.

Hatred.

 _"He will never do that to me again—no one will,"_  the boy growled darkly.  _"Not any more, not when I am what I am. I'm not afraid to show them that if I have to."_

Withdrawn and quite, certainly. Yet also, strangely, an urge to boast and prove capable, self-sustaining... Superior?

 _"I already_ am _better than them,"_  he replied tersely.  _"I always have been."_

Comparing a great tree to a stump, hardly an impressive feat. Nothing to gain, nothing to show for.

 _"Hardly impressive?"_  the boy spat back.

Hot flashes of furry bubbles constantly, easy to puncture yet near impossible to repair once inevitably breached.

 _"Every day of my life I have had to put up with them,"_  he justified gruffly.  _"So what if they get what's coming to them?"_

Tightly wound tension always snaps, devastating consequences to those unfortunate enough to be caught in the crossfire always results.

 _"Are you saying I can't control myself?"_  the boy interrogated in a tone of barely contained ironic rage.

Lies are not able to hide, the truth is laid bare to be observed with keen interest by those with the gift of reading.

 _"No one can read me,"_  the boy stated stiffly.

Guarded behaviour results most poorly when mixed with overconfidence, simple to break down and leak secret intentions.

 _"Whatever..."_  he grumbled.

Withdrawn and quiet, certainly. Destined for survival.

 _"What do you mean?"_  the boy questioned, genuine curiosity outweighing annoyance.

As if a reply to his question, a vision filled the boy's head.

A round, puce-coloured face spat words from his curled lips, booming so loud they seemed to bounce off the walls and hit the boy hard in the chest. The vein on the puce coloured face pulsed in unison with throbbing pain in the boy's his hands. He had difficulty moving most of the fingers in his right hand and felt a wet drop slide off his left index finger, the smell of blood wafting into his nose. Out of the corner of the boy's eyes, he saw a huddled figure, blond, fat and broken, with a woman tending to his chubby face. She cupped the boy as she sobbed, the boy revelling in the sight of the beaten mass as it shook with terror and agony while words continued to be spat harshly at him.

Endurance.

 _"I never heard what he was yelling at me,"_  the boy admitted quietly.  _"I was running through escape routes in case he was going to kill me."_

Vitality ensures greatness, without a clear direction method for survival even the best will fall.

 _"I won't,"_  he strongly declared.

Growth, discovery, patience. Combined, these forces can overthrow the strongest of competitors. Purpose prevails.

 _"I will,"_  the boy promised with passion in his words.  _"I'll grow. I'll discover. I'll remember my purpose. Whatever I need to do."_

Promises are fickle, certainty lies only with action and observed progress.

 _"How will I do that?"_  he asked in a sliver of irritation.

Eager to follow orders, longing after the decisions leading down the road to success. Purpose, ambiguous at best and temperamental at worst.

 _"Fine,"_  he agreed dismissively.  _"I'll be clear in my goals then."_

Unconvincing verity will lead to self-destruction and impaired judgment for the future, irreversible degradation.

 _"And what is my_ verity _then?"_  the boy demanded.  _"What is my true principle, my core value?"_

Preservation.

 _"W-What?"_  he stuttered for the first time.

Isolation is discretion. Discretion is preservation. Preservation is success.

 _"I see,"_  he said eagerly as his mind pieced the puzzle together.  _"That's it. That's it!"_

Success at all costs.

 _"All costs..."_  the boy repeated like he had just discovered the entry to paradise.

Pitch black darkness came over the boy immediately followed by a cry of glee as a lone word rang out.

* * *

A boy stood watching two other boys, identical, fly around on splintering broomsticks while a little girl ran around after them, the melodic giggles delicately dancing into his ears. The mouthwatering scent of pumpkin pie enveloped him, prompting the sound of his growling stomach to echo loudly. A man clapped his hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed gently, smiling warmly at him so that his ageing face appeared more youthful and relaxed. The soothing light from the slowly sinking sun made all their mirrored red hair come to life, like the birth of a flame, while green and yellow fireflies flitted around the boy's head.

Home.

 _"H-Hey..."_  the boy greeted, voice timid.

Nerves rule the body, unable to control emotions or feelings. Shaken and steadily disturbed.

 _"Oi!"_  he said indignity.

Though a strong heart buried deep within, a fragile will and soft spirit control the mind. Flickering, temperamental mindset, difficult to determine.

 _"Wait a minute!"_  the boy replied, irritated.

Easily provoked and yet somewhat prideful, even with low self-value and a severe lack of confidence. Unlikely, but potential of opportunity.

 _"Hang on!"_  he demanded.  _"I haven't even said anything yet! How can you come up with all that?"_

A tactical driven mind is hidden beneath impulsive behaviour and self-deprecation, commitment to discipline is crucial for allowing any measure of success to occur.

 _"That doesn't make any sense!"_  the boy expressed with frustration.

Patience is non-existent.

 _"Git..."_  the boy muttered.

Images sprung out from nowhere, surprising the boy into silence. They flickered in and out of focus for a short while, unsure which one to land on, before eventually settling.

Laughter. Cruel, maniacal laughter rang like a bell. The boy ran around wildly, clutching his tongue which burning worse than his face. He felt tears stream down his face as two identical boys pointed as they continued to cackled wildly, one of them picking up a sickly green lollipop the boy just dropped and waved it with glee. The boy's fingers began to sink into the flesh of his tongue, eventually meeting in the middle through the newly formed hole as he screamed in horror. Soon others came down, two older boys and a younger girl, and soon their own laughter joined the twin boys.

Humiliation.

 _"W-Why did you—? Don't you dare—! I-I..."_  the boy sputtered.

Unappreciated and the laughing point for others.

 _"Don't!"_  the boy warned.  _"Stop it now! Right now!"_

Anger is the veil to which insecurity lies.

 _"You think you're so clever, don't you?"_  the boy snapped defensively.

Desperate attempts to claw at any shred of authority and dignity will win nothing. A clear and steady mind paired with a quiet ego naturally finds the great joys in life.

 _"That doesn't even make any sense."_  He huffed.  _"Sounds like a load of toss to me."_

Lies are not able to hide.

 _"I'm not lying!"_  he shouted defiantly.  _"Stop trying to pretend you know me better than I do cos you don't!"_

Stubborn like rest, less admirable than many. Nevertheless, not convincing at all.

" _A-Are you talking about my brothers?"_  the boy asked softly, instantly draining any measure of anger from his voice.

Common sense eventually rears its head even in the most difficult cases, often pushed to the limits until realisation rears its head.

 _"How..."_ he continued with a more indented tone of politeness as if he were trying to ignore the slight insult to his intelligence.  _"How much do you really know then?"_

Permanent memories, permanent secrets.

 _"Bloody hell! Get on with it then."_  Rage finally pushing its way back into his words as the boy grunted harshly.

A third scene began to play like a recording as a response to the boy's words.

It was evening again. The boy was sitting excitedly at a dining table, watching a woman yell her head off at two boys in the garden outside. A girl raced past, shoving him nearly off his chair as she dove for the fridge and took out handfuls of food before stuffing them in her mouth. The woman entered and was now scolding the girl, pushing her out of the room, still not noticing the boy. At that moment, a man walked in—his eyes tired but smile bright and cheerful. The girl bolted into his arms and the two boys came in to greet the man with a hug. The woman kissed the man and took off his coat, brushing dirt off his shoulders. The boy sat, still excited, as he waited for his greeting. But it never came. Soon everyone was chatting happily and moving quickly, no one paying any attention to the boy sitting in the chair with a heartbroken look on his face.

Lost.

 _"N-No!"_  the boy screamed.

Ignored, abandoned, unnoticed—forgotten. A frequent feeling, leaving nothing but betrayal and sorrow to simmer and stew.

 _"Make it stop, make it stop!"_  he cried.

Too weak to fight back, too weak to challenge. Craving the ability and opportunity to attack and enact revenge, so well deserved it would be.

 _"No!"_  he moaned.  _"Please!"_

The one no one wanted—mother desperate for a daughter, father too preoccupied to notice. Left to fend alone while all others are showered with praise and admiration. Desperate to be worthy, be the best, and stand above them all knowing that they were wrong and relishing in the satisfaction it will undoubtedly bring.

 _"Stop it now, please just stop!"_  the boy begged.

The one no one wanted. The one no one wants.

 _"That's not true!"_  he cried.  _"None of this is real!"_

Lies. Are. Not. Able. To. Hide.

 _"No, no, no!"_  He moaned in anguish.

Determination is strength. Strength is power. Power is success.

 _"No—I want... I'm just..."_  he tried but soon faded as he could not dispute the truth when it was presented so clearly right in front of him.

Success at all costs.

 _"No... Please, no,"_  the boy whimpered weakly, knowing it was no use for the decision had been made long before be began his plea for mercy.

Colour faded quickly to black and soon enough, not a moment passed from the boy's last pitiful response before the voice shot into the air with a triumph bite. It rang throughout, pride dripping as the word as it fell like a bombshell as it had twice before.

"SLYTHERIN!"


	5. Surviving Slytherin

_Slytherin._ _  
_

The word cracked like a whip in the mind of Hermione Granger.

Running a hand through her bushy hair, she forced herself to remain calm as she staggered towards a long table decorated in a rich emerald covering. The table sat alongside three others in the Great Hall within Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, currently packed with students and staff as they await the end of the sorting ceremony. The walk seemed to take forever and, though, the mixed gazes of both bored and anxious students were no longer fixed to her, Hermione could not shake the feeling that she was still stuck in the spotlight. She wondered how long it would take before her new housemates found out who she was. More specifically,  _ _what__  she was.

Hermione Granger was the daughter of two loving and caring parents, who had not a single sliver of magic between them. She was a Muggle-born witch, and the only people known to have an obsession with a pureblood status in the school were those she was now seated between dressed in black robes embellished in green and silver—Slytherins.

 _ _'I can do this,'__ _ _s__ he thought firmly as her feet moved mechanically.  _'_ _ _I know I can, this is the reason the Sorting Hat put me here.'__

Her time spent with the mysterious and magical Sorting Hat had scared her more than anything. It flipped through memories with ease, presenting those she held dear, those she repressed, those she feared—stripping her down to her bare essentials and making her realise the type of person she was and would become. It had penetrated her mind, discovering her strengths, weaknesses, hopes, and desires. It knew her better than she knew herself. The brutal invasion left her shaken and unnerved, a sensation so foreign, so unwelcome that she promised herself to never let anything make her feel that way ever again. Then the hat made its choice, and while she did not disagree, she was deeply concerned about her future at Hogwarts. She had to play smart if she wanted any chance of surviving, stick to herself and keep her head down.

Hermione looked out along the green table and took a seat next to a burly boy, Gregory Goyle, who had been sorted just before her as the Sorting Hat swiftly admitted another student to Slytherin. She scooted slightly away from him as he grunted and cracked his knuckles for no apparent reason. Her head stooped slightly as she tilted to the left so she was nearly facing the exit in order to determine the best and most efficient exit strategy when someone muttered something under their breath.

"People like  _ _him__  are the reason our reputation is in the dirt."

Hermione turned her head back and saw a pretty girl with light freckles and long sandy blonde hair-raising an eyebrow and looking disapprovingly at the moody boy now cracking his neck and looking as if he had swallowed a lemon whole. Hermione listened intently as the girl continued.

"The house of the great and the cunning," the girl continued. "I doubt he even knows the meaning of cunning."

"Or spell it," Hermione added automatically.

She paused for a minute, cursing the words she spoke without thinking first, but then smiling in relief as the girl snorted with glee.

"Yeah," she said. "the great beast probably can't spell anything with more than two syllables."

Hermione smirked back in spite of herself.

The girl stuck her hand out to Hermione. "Greengrass. Daphne Greengrass."

"... Granger." Hermione replied slowly, following Daphne's lead and lightly gripping the outstretched hand. "Hermione."

"Granger?" Daphne scrunched up her face. "I've never heard it."

Hermione's heart skipped a beat as her mind raced for a viable excuse.

"I-It's new, we had to change our name after the war since..." she trailed off deliberately to try and cement the lie.

Daphne's expression relaxed. "My best friend had to do that too. Shame really, a name as old as hers should be praised not feared."

"Hopefully she can change it back soon," Hermione said awkwardly.

Daphne winked. "And  _ _yours__  too."

Hermione forced a laugh. This was not what she intended, she needed to remove herself from the situation, escape before things took a turn for the worse.

"Nervous?" Daphne asked with a knowing look.

Hermione nodded mutely, deciding to play the role of a shy and sensitive first year while in reality calculating the best way to excuse herself.

"Well don't be." Daphne's mouth curved in a condescending smile. "Forget about the bloody Puffs, Slytherin friendships are strongest of all. We look out for one another here."

Hermione couldn't help but scoff at the other girl, though the noise was covered by everyone's polite clapping at a weedy looking boy, Theodore Nott, who was just sorted into Ravenclaw house.

"Just stick with me and I'll show you the ropes," Daphne continued happily. "My parents have been telling me all about their time here, the friends they meet, the classes they took and stuff like that. I've been ready to come here by the time I could walk."

"I've been reading all about Hogwarts since I got my letter," Hermione commented in an attempt to use the situation to her advantage, though immediately regretting her choice as the other girl leaned away from her.

"Reading?" Daphne repeated, eyes narrowed as suspicion splayed across her features. "Why are you  _ _reading__  about Hogwarts?"

"My parents didn't go here when they were in school," Hermione explained hastily, which wasn't a complete lie.

"Oh. Durmstrang?" Daphne guessed, her voice still woven with suspicion.

"Yeah," Hermione agreed almost too casually. "but they didn't like it. So they moved here and had me. They don't talk about their time at school a lot—at all actually."

"I'd think not!" Daphne barked. "If I were you, I'd be careful not to tell anyone about that. Some people are rather narrow-minded around here."

 _ _'I'm sure they are,'__ Hermione said to herself sarcastically.  _'_ _ _and I'm sure__ you're  _ _going to be the exception.'__

A curt Scottish voice, one Hermione instantly recognised as Professor McGonagall's after her short introduction before the ceremony began, shot out from the front of the hall and prevented any further thought.

"Potter, Harry!"

Hermione, along with everyone else, took a sharp inhale and stretched in her seat, desperate for a look at the most famous boy in the world. Low murmurs rumbled as people frantically whispered to one another but Hermione wasn't listening to them. She had her eyes dead-set on the front of the hall, her heart sinking when finally saw on him.

After hours and hours of research, reading as much as she could about every single little detail the Wizarding World had to offer, she had built the image of The Boy Who Lived to be somewhat of a hero. She knew it was a bit illogical to expect an eleven-year-old boy to resemble anything unlike an eleven-year-old boy, but it was difficult not to hope that  _ _the__ Harry Potter would be taller, stronger, more confident. Instead, her gaze fell upon a small skinny child with dark, messy hair that stuck up in the back and was flattened over the spot Hermione, and everyone else knew lay his scar—proof of the demise of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

The hat was placed on him and not a sound was uttered from that moment forth as if a curse had sewn all their mouths shut. Every person in the hall, students and pupils alike, were waiting eagerly with bated breath. All apart from the Headmaster. An elderly wizard with a lengthy white beard, tall pointed hat, half-moon spectacles perched on a long and crooked nose, Professor Dumbledore sat comfortably in his chair with a joyous expression on his wrinkled face making him look decades younger. Hermione thought she saw a knowing glint twinkle in the professor's light blue eyes like he knew more than anyone else in the room, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. Her own eyes quickly snapped back to the front of the hall.

The boy Harry sat on the stool, his face etched with focus and eyes rapidly flickering behind his closed lids. His hands twitched ever so slightly in his lap and his feet flexed like he was in deep sleep. However, compared to every other student sorted before him he was the most composed and maintained his composure with impressive ability.

One minute passed. Delicate mumbles, barely audible, began to emit from the more restless pupils settled in the red Gryffindor table. Then two minutes passed and more Gryffindor students joined, slowly increasing the noise and irritation of the teachers seated in the tables behind the boy on the stool. Then three minutes, pockets of chatter speckled around the hall ranging from the blue Ravenclaw table to the Hufflepuff's yellow one. By minute four, even the more quiet and respectful students were frantically whispering to one another, desperate not to be caught by the stone cold gaze of the staff members. All except Professor Dumbledore of course, who was still smiling lazily and nodded towards students every now and then.

"What house do you think he'll be in?" Daphne asked quietly.

"I don't know," Hermione said, though guiltily hoped that he would join her house.

According to the history books, James Potter—a rebellious pure-blood wizard, and Lily Potter—a simply outstanding Muggle-born witch, were the parents of Harry making him half-blood. It was also known that he was raised away from the world of magic, and theoretically should have no prior prejudices towards Muggles and, by extension, Muggle-born students. He could be an ally or even a friend. It was a selfish desire but a smart one if she intended on enduring the snake pit she found herself in, which she very much did.

"No one really knows much about him so it's hard to guess." Daphne shrugged. "Better not be goddamn Gryffindor, that'll be just the  _ _worst__! I'm sure he'll be with us though."

"Indeed..." Hermione muttered distractedly.

Not a moment later than when the world left Hermione's mouth, the hat finally spoke.

"SLYTHERIN!"

"Oh my..." Hermione heard herself whisper just before a deafening wave of applause pounded against her ears.

"This is amazing!" Daphne cheered happily, clapping her hands together faster as Harry descended the steps and walked down towards them.

He didn't look pleased, Hermione saw, but neither did he look upset. Rather he appeared to be at ease with the decision and surveyed the Slytherins with a guarded but calm expression. He was much more mature than his appearance let on, seemingly even more than most of the older students he was now headed towards. He followed the thundering sound all the way to the back end of the table, covering himself carefully with his robes and meeting Hermione's eyes briefly. She quickly looked away and instead choosing to stare at one of the boys seated at the very front of the table.

A pale boy, who's name Hermione did not know, with platinum yellow hair and sharp features held mouth agape and eyes wide as they remained glued to Harry Potter. There was a chilling sense of greed and hunger in his gaze, one that sent shivers down Hermione's spine. She didn't know who the boy was but made a mental note to never be around him, and potentially try to warn the Potter boy about him. She did not like it but soon realised that many of her fellow housemates wore the same expression—though nothing near to the same extent as the boy at the front. She shuddered once more and began to truly realise the type of people she was grouped with for the next seven years of her life.

"I knew it! I  _ _knew__ it!" Daphne cried out to anyone that would listen.

Hermione rolled her eyes and grunted a noise of agreement, too focused on how to approach Harry Potter, currently perched cautiously beside a very tall seventh-year boy who looked equally pleased with the situation as the rest of the house.

"He's kinda cute, y'know." Daphne's voice murmured in Hermione's ear, snapping her from her thoughts.

"Really?" Hermione questioned without any shred of interest.

"Yeah, too bad about his mother though," she added with a hint of disgust. "My parents would never let me be with a half-blood. Even if he  _ _is__ The Boy Who Lived, he's still not pure sadly enough. But like that's gonna stop me from trying!"

"I agree, his mother truly is the worst," Hermione retorted sourly, unable to contain her irritation at the girl's comment. "Being one of the brightest students of her age is such a horrible thing indeed."

"A  _ _Mudblood__   _t_ he best at anything?" Daphne snorted in disbelief. "Please!"

White-hot rage spiked through Hermione as she lost all logical reasoning, along with any chance of a peaceful time at Hogwarts. She would not hide for any longer, she would not let someone insult her like this for any longer, she would not let someone think they were superior to her for any longer. She turned to face the other girl, her chin high and chest puffed with pride.

"I will beat you in everything," she whispered softly. "Every subject, every test, every chance I get. I will best you in everything because  _ _I__  am a Mudblood and I am better than you—better than you could  _ _ever__ be."

Hermione smirked as Daphne's face drained of colour, absolute revolution splattered across her features. She jerked violently away from Hermione and spat on the ground.

"You–you filthy little  _ _hag__!" Daphne hissed, each word dipping in acid as she spoke. "How  _ _dare__  you even think—!"

"Silence!" Professor McGonagall's voice sliced through Daphne's stormy rant, ending it instantly.

Pure ecstasy coursed through Hermione's veins, taking down someone who deserved it had never been sweeter than this. She kept her eyes on the other girl whose face had turned a dark purple at this point, and gleefully watched as she got up and walked to the front end of the table, getting as far away as possible. However, when she ended up sitting next to a large girl with a pug-like face and the unsettling boy with platinum hair, a nagging sensation poked hotly inside Hermione's stomach. She had let her emotions get the better of her, and as a consequence, she had lost any possibility of a quiet year. Even after the short time spent together, Hermione knew Daphne would have spilled her secret to those around her before she even sat down and she could already hear the disgusted murmurs, feel the judgmental gazes burning through her.

She had made a mistake, one that would never be repeated again.

Her eyes settled on a thin black-haired girl sitting at the Gryffindor table, Tracey Davis, and wondered what would have happened if she had switched places. If  _ _she__ was the one soon to be dressed in the cold colours of silver and green. A dark series of thoughts flashed rapidly inside her head and tried desperately to push them away when a voice echoed boldly against the stone walls.

"SLYTHERIN!"

Hermione watched as a gangling boy sat with the Sorting Hat swallowing half his face, hiding him from view, but it was still clear that he was terrified. An odd silence fell for a fraction of a second before two outraged and shocked voices called simultaneously from the middle of the Gryffindor table.

"What the—!"

"Like bloody hell it is!"

" _ _Language, Mr Weasley!__ " Professor McGonagall screamed, her face twisted with scandalised fury.

Her mind wiped clean, she watched stunned with the rest of the student body while two identical red-headed boys stood and continued shouting.

"This is insane!" One threw slammed his fist down on the table, forcing the girl next to him to jump in fright.

"Professor, do something— _anything!_ " the other pleaded. "This is utter  _ _bollocks__ , how—!"

"You are in the presence of first years and the Headmaster himself, you will  _ _not__  speak this way in front of them," McGonagall interrupted with a dangerously steady tone, her arms crossed and eyes harsh. "Detention for a month, for your foul choice of words. You can be assured your parents will hear of this."

"Ron!" the first boy called out to the timid first year.

Hermione finally saw the timid boy's matching stark red hair as he attempted to slink his way towards the Slytherin table, and realised that he was their brother. The young boy, Ron, kept his chin attached firmly to his chest and quickened his pace, determined to ignore the calls from his family members.

"Mr Weasley you need to leave now!  _ _Both__ of you," Professor McGonagall ordered, pointing to the large oak door at the back of the room.

"Bugger this!" the one who swore replied and stormed off, his brother following after trying and failing to make eye contact with Ron again.

Hermione heard one of them yell,  _ _"Son of a bitch!"__  just before the heavy door slammed shut, causing Hermione to wince at the sound. The hall stood frozen in time, everyone at a complete loss for words. Hermione expected the Headmaster to address them and keep the peace, but he stayed seated—though she noticed his smile was missing. Professor McGonagall alone gained the attention of the students once more, then called for the final student to be sorted. Blaise Zabini, a handsome black boy, sat and was briskly announced as the newest member to join the Ravenclaw house.

Only after the boy sat down in with the cheering students in blue, did Professor Dumbledore stand. His tall and impressive stature surprising Hermione as she watched him almost glide to the spot where the first years were sorted with immense agility and grace. He was dressed in a flowing ruby red gown with gold trim, making Hermione wonder if he favoured Gryffindor house in any way as his clothing exactly matched the house colours. She saw him as he waited a moment and allowed his eyes to scan over all four tables in a calculated manner before breaking into a wide and warm smile, clapping his hands together excitedly as he spoke in a peaceful voice.

"Congratulations to all the first years, I know it is an unnerving situation but you all handled it with the utmost confidence. I do however apologise for the outburst that occurred earlier, I promise it is not a usual event." His eyes twinkled brightly and did not elaborate further. "I welcome every person, new and old, with the warmest greetings and hope that you learn much as you grow into upstanding witches and wizards. I am sure this will be a very eventful and wonderful year for us all."

Hermione noticed that his gaze flicked a couple heads behind her where she knew Harry Potter was seated at the back of the Slytherin table and lingered on him for a moment. No one around her seemed to notice, so she turned around to see if the boy had. He did, and he did not seem pleased.

"I believe," Professor Dumbledore continued smoothly. "That a few ground rules need be announced. Though all of you should be familiar with the more common regulations prior to tonight's sorting, some new laws have been put into place for your protection and safety here at Hogwarts. First and foremost, strictly under no circumstances may any student even so much as to attempt to approach the Forbidden Forest without the aid of a teacher or appropriate staff member. A House Prefect is not a substantial supervisor in this event."

Someone a few seats down from Hermione grumbled, and she saw a squat boy caress a highly polished badge pinned to his robes.

"Secondly," Professor Dumbledore said loudly. "The third-floor corridor is completely out of bounds for anyone, no exceptions. This includes the Head Boy and Head Girl alongside the Prefects, naturally. If you wish to continue your education and your survival in general, I highly recommend you steer well clear from that area of the castle."

Hermione saw Daphne look worried as she whispered hurriedly to her the girl next to her, and smiled broadly.

"And lastly," Professor Dumbledore finished with a grave edge in his tone. "For any student attending the village Hogsmeade later in the year, you should execute the most severe caution when entering the Honeydukes sweet shop, and will be wise to avoid the Liquorice Snaps. They have a very sharp bite to them!"

He winked. A chorus of laughter steadily trickled through the hall as students wrapped their heads around the Headmaster's joke. Hermione didn't find it anywhere remotely as amusing as her fellow housemates. Important boundaries and guidelines were not something she would ever kid about nor did she believe those responsible for her safety should either.

"Please do  _ _not__ attempt to take these warnings as a challenge," He warned calmly with a grin still plastered to his face. "For it will almost certainly result in your immediate death."

The laughter stopped as quickly as it came.

Professor Dumbledore, however, continued to chuckle heartily as he lifted his bony finger in the air. "One final word before we allow the feast to commence."

All ears listened nervously.

The Headmaster cleared his throat gently. "Pumpernickel! Thank you and please do enjoy yourselves with this lovely meal before you."

 _ _'He's mad!'__ Hermione rolled her eyes as applause erupted from all four tables.  _'_ _ _Absolutely ridiculous!'__

Her mind, however, went blank at the sight in front of her. The tables, once bare apart from coloured pieces of cloth, were suddenly sky high with mountains of varied food dishes. Roasted chicken, lamb, beef, sat next to heaps of honeyed ham, piles of potatoes and peas, all lined up as far as the eye could see. Realising that she had not eaten for most of the day, Hermione's stomach grumbled and mouth watered as she eyed the food hungrily and reaching to grab a bit of everything. However as she grabbed a small bread roll from the basket, she saw a streak of white-blond hair rush past her followed closely by longer strands the colour of sand whipping wildly, both intent on getting to the back of the table as fast as possible.

Her stomach clenched, this time not out of hunger but out of dread. Her last shred of hope—gone. She had forgotten about Harry Potter, her one and only chance for a friend.

All sense of appetite vanished, she decided that studying for her classes would be the best use of her time. Potions, a class Hermione was deeply looking forward to, filled her mind as she rehearsed the correct ingredients and recipes to brew potions mentioned in her prescribed text book. Her eyes periodically dragged themselves back to the boy at the end of the table, anger flaring hotly each time she saw the blond boy smirk or heard Daphne's laugh, and forced herself to concentrate on anything else. The rest of the feast went unnoticed as she was diligently running over the precise motions and incantations required for all the spells and charms she could think of, having easily finished her potions list, until a sneering voice called out from the front of the table.

"Slytherins, with me."

Hermione looked around, confusion filling her thoughts, and saw four teachers standing in front of each house. A short stump of a woman ushered the Hufflepuffs, a tiny man in a neat suit with the Ravenclaws, and Professor McGonagall leading the Gryffindors. It seemed that only the first years were being called forth, as the older students continued to eat and chat happily. She focused her eyes on the front of her house table where a tall and imposing man with sallow skin stood with an air of superiority. His long black hair framed his face like a curtain as his eyes narrowed with displeasure.

"Now!" he snapped to the students still seated, frustrated that they had not obeyed immediately.

Hermione and most the first years jumped to their feet and hurried after the professor as he swept past, black robes billowing behind like a living shadow. Low chatter and muttering from the small group surrounded her while they all made their way of the Great Hall and towards a set of steps going down into the guts of the castle. She barely registered the path as the corridor twisted at odd intervals and dimmed with every step, the atmosphere becoming cold and heavy while they travelled further underground.

"That's Professor Snape," Hermione heard the familiar snobbish tone of Daphne's voice. "He's our Head of House, and  _t_ _ _otally__  biased towards us. We can get away with anything!"

Hermione resisted the urge to slap herself, and the other girl.  _'_ _ _Of course – Professor Snape! The Potions Master. How did I not realise before?'__

Anger rose inside of her at her lack of perception and basic capabilities. She needed rest, the day had stretched out for too long and her mind was growing dull. The lack of food had also taken its toll as her stomach ached, growls threatening to escape at any moment. She found herself glaring at the back of Daphne's head as the girl leaned over to talk to Harry Potter, cursing her earlier stupidity. After what seemed like hours, the group skidded to an abrupt halt. Hermione expected to see a grand and fancy door, perhaps wooden with decals or a solid iron gate, but instead, there was just a bare wall lit by a dull frame from a torch nearby.

"This," Professor Snape said, gesturing to the stacked stones with a long white finger. "Is the entry to your common room. Remember it well, otherwise, you will be wandering the dungeons for a very long time. The only ones who know how to get in are Slytherins, no outsider has been granted access for seven centuries and  _wil_ _l_ remain as such."

He finished by giving everyone a dark look, his eyes lingering on Harry Potter just as Professor Dumbledore's had but with no warmth.

"Professor Snape?" Daphne asked pompously.

"What?" Professor Snape drawled impatiently, folding his arms into his cloak and staring down at her with strong dislike.

Daphne looked taken aback and stuttered, face burning a reddish colour. "I-Isn't there supposed to be a password?"

"I was getting to that!" he hissed. "If you would be quiet and listen, I will explain."

Daphne turned bright pink and played with her hair in a nervous manner, making Hermione smile in devilish delight.

"As I was saying," Professor Snape continued with his harsh tone. "The wall is guarded by a password which changes every fortnight. The Prefects will post the new password on the notice board inside. You will do well to remember it, for if you cannot then you will be sleeping outside."

His eyes landed back on to Harry and his face split into a dirty snarl. "You will not tell anyone the password, regardless of how  _ _special__  you think you are."

The boy seethed but kept his mouth firmly shut, just as it had been since the moment Hermione set eyes on him.

"The current password is  _ _Argentum__ _ _v__ _ _iridi__ , simply meaning 'silver green'," Professor Snape explained, tearing his gaze from the one boy and fixed it sternly on everyone.

Hermione repeated the password in her head but stopped dead as the teacher pierced her with his dark and hostile eyes, the shadows covering his face making him even more intimidating than before.

"Classes start tomorrow. Good night," Professor Snape said coldly, his eyes lingering on Harry once more before he swiftly swept away.

As the professor flitted from view, the blond boy stood in front of the wall with his hands on his hips and cleared his throat.

" _ _Argentum__ _ _v__ _ _iridi__ _,_ " he said in a commanding voice.

The wall melted away and presented a large marbled black door with small silver snakes slithering up and down the smooth surface. The boy looked over at Harry Potter with a cocky smirk on his face, though immediately fell as the other boy outright ignored him.

"Move it, Mudblood!" a gruff female voice suddenly spat from behind Hermione, shoving her out of the way and into the stone wall.

Hermione looked at the girl dead in the eye while the world around her stood still. Barely a second lasted before her back was squished up against the stone surface as people rushed to get into the inside and rushed to put Hermione in her place. Hands, arms, shoulders, legs—all collided with her in a hateful manner, though she never dropped her head and held a determined gaze with every single pupil. The only two people that didn't react in disgust were Ron, the nervous red-headed boy, who seemed to fear her more than anything else and, to Hermione's amazement, Harry Potter. The boy merely glanced at her as he made his way through the door, but there was no ill will hidden in his vivid green eyes.

Then Hermione was left alone outside the door. She shook the itching growth of irritation from her mind and took a deep breath, firmly pressing on the cool marble.

The first thing she noticed was a sudden increase in temperature. Her eyes ran across rough stone jutting out along the walls and floor of the long underground room, illuminated in a soft green light from scattered lamps. Directly opposite the entrance lay a grand fireplace, the obvious source of warmth, spitting red-hot embers from the slowly dying flame. On top of the fireplace lay a heavily decorated mantelpiece carved with elegant serpents, similar to those the entry door, a striking Slytherin banner hanging over the top. Settled either side were rich leather-bound couches with plush pillows placed neatly on each cushion. The only windows in the room were framing the sitting area, black and Gothic with stained patterns, and a view unlike anything Hermione could imagine.

Instead of the usual night sky and expanding landscape, a blue-green tinge was all she could see. The sound of water lapping up against the side of a boat echoed quietly, while shadowy figures flicked past every now and then.

They were under the Great Lake of Hogwarts.

"Remarkable," Hermione said in awe, watching as the inky colours of the water merged and swallowed each other.

The repetitive swirls and sounds sent a wave of exhaustion rippling through her body making her even more desperate for sleep. Her eyes lazily scanned the room, eventually spotting a wooden door labelled  _ _Girls Dormitory__  to the left. She did not register her feet moving, the hand reaching for the doorknob, nor the sensation in her gut somehow knowing where to go. Blurs of grey stone and green light reached her eyes, but she could not bring herself to focus on them. Before long she stood in front yet another door slightly ajar with a familiar voice cackling loudly. She gently prodded it open, preparing herself for the worst.

The room was small yet also spacious enough to fit four ancient and elegant four-poster beds. The sheets were silver silk and the wooden posts adorned with thick forest green curtains that ran all the way from the ceiling to the floor. The far wall resembled that of the common room embedded with the same tall black windows while the remaining walls were covered in ageing tapestry, displaying impressive figures and faces. In the middle of the room sat a small pool of still water, framed in a lighter and smoother stone unlike those on the walls and floor. A statuette of a mermaid sat on a lumpy rock in the middle, but just for a second as the mermaid soon slipped off and dove down and out of sight. The scene was blissful and peaceful until she spotted three unwelcoming faces.

Daphne, having taken the bed on the far right, scoffed at Hermione while she looked around. The beefy girl Hermione was shoved by in the common room entry occupied the bed next to her, a black cat purring softly beside her, while the pug-faced girl Daphne sat next to during the feast was perched on the bed closest to the door on the left. Hermione had no option but to hastily walk towards the last bed in the back corner of the room.

As she climbed underneath the cool covers she heard the taunts of the three girls and fought the urge to scream at them. Instead, she tightly closed the curtains, blocking her from view but choosing to leave a gap on the left so she could look out the window. She lay on her side, watching as the water pressed against the glass while thoughts swam in her mind. Despite her desperation for sleep, she could not do anything other than worry. Emotions had bested her today and left her vulnerable as it was only a matter of time before the whole school knew about her, that fact sticking with her more than anything. She had merely her own wits and self to fall back on from now on.

She was truly alone, for who could ever trust a Muggle-born Slytherin?


	6. Friends and Foes (I)

Harry lay awake in his bed, listening to the immense snoring coming from the boys he sharing the room with him. Their combined efforts woke him well before dawn, from what he could gather since they were buried well beneath the castle, and kept him from returning to sleep. So he was left gazing lazily up at the stone ceiling, the details washed away due to his lack of glasses. He felt he should be used to being woken prematurely, sharing a home with his uncle and cousin who were both easily capable of drowning out the noises from all four other boys sleeping soundly next to him, but didn't want to think of his relatives any longer—Hogwarts was his home now, even if he did have to return to the clutches of Privet Drive for the holidays.

An aching pain began to flare on his muscles, drawing him from his thoughts and making him sit up to wrench open the heavy green curtains drawn around the bed. He raised his arms and stretched before reaching over to the dark wooden bedside table for his circular glasses, his vision sharpening as he blinked the surroundings into focus.

Solid blocks of green promptly greeted him, two directly opposite, one to his left, and one up against the wall opposite to the door to his right. The room seemed very small, having five beds squished awkwardly around a still pool of water in the middle, and Harry found it rather impractical to have such a thing in a dorm room. But when it was quiet and still, like it was now, he saw the appeal. He let his eyes run over the water, landing on rock settled in the middle which was currently empty. Confused, he stepped towards it for a closer inspection for he definitely remembered seeing a stone statue on top of the rock before he went to sleep.

As if to answer his unasked question, the surface broke and a figure of a mermaid rose smoothly out and sat on the small island. It turned and faced him, flicking her hair to the left as she smiled at him. She winked and blew a kiss at him before becoming as still as any regular stone.

"Magic," he muttered to himself, though a smile tugged on his lips.

He turned to look over at his trunk, a finely crafted black case with delicate diamond carvings on the lid and was amazed to find a series of green and silver objects sitting neatly on top. A silken tie, striped scarf, and a gleaming badge embellished with a large pale snake, all mysteriously appearing out of thin air in the middle of the night—at least, according to Harry. As he picked up the woollen scarf he spotted a rolled and unsealed piece of parchment. Opening it, noting the handwriting was the same as in his acceptance letter, and carefully read through the message.

 _ _Monday:__   _ _9:00-10:30 Double Potions, 10:30-10:45 Break, 10:30-11:45 History of Magic, 11:30-2:00 Break, 2:00-2:45 Transfiguration, 2:45-3:00 Charms, 3:00-4:15 Astronomy.__

 _ _Tuesday:__   _ _9:00-10:30 Double Transfiguration, 10:30-10:45 Break, 10:45-11:30 Defence Against the Dark Arts, 11:30-1:00 Double History of Magic.__

 _ _Wednesday:__   _ _9:00-10:30 Double Charms, 10:30-10:45 Break, 10:45-11:30 Herbology, 7:45-8:30 Astronomy Practical.__

 _ _Thursday:__   _ _9:00-10:30 Double Defence Against the Dark Arts, 10:30-10:45 Break, 10:45-11:30 Potions, 2:00-3:30 Flying.__

 __Friday:_ _ __Free__ _ _._ _

Harry quickly realised that it was his timetable for the year. Relishing in the fact that his Fridays were completely free, he proceeded to get dressed. He heard the slight sounds of shuffling emerging from the bed by the window and hastened his pace, throwing his uniform on and the recent additions before tucking the scroll into his sleeve as he left. Just as he closed the door, he heard the unmistakable tone of Draco Malfoy call after him. Draco Malfoy—the single most annoying person in the world. They had met once at Diagon Alley, Harry not thinking too much of Malfoy then, however, his opinion changed drastically after the night of the feast.

He recognised the white-blond hair instantly during the sorting ceremony, and was tempted to sit beside him were it not for the disturbing look plastered on the other boy's face. Freaked out by the intense eyes glued to his every move, he walked right past him and sat at the very back of the Slytherin table in an attempt to get as far away from him as possible. Unfortunately, it didn't work. The moment the feat began Malfoy raced after him, joined to the hip by a girl, Daphne Greengrass. Malfoy boasted about anything and everything to do with Slytherin, making Harry grind his teeth in frustration.

He still had a difficult time processing why they were so interested in him, but judging by the lingering gaze from the Headmaster during his speech, he knew it had to be significant.

Harry walked slowly up the path towards the Great Hall, enjoying the stillness of the castle around him. His steps echoing softly off the stone walls as he continued, the air ridding itself of the heavy musk and replaced by a lighter, fresher atmosphere. He had just managed to remember the directions back to the surface after Professor Snape, Daphne had informed him, led them down to the common room after the feast. He did not like the professor. He did not like the way his hate-filled eyes singled him out for no reason, he did not like the way he spat words at him, he did not like anything about him—regardless of Daphne's reassurance that Snape heavily favoured them, and wasn't looking forward to being in his class.

After a tiresome trek, he finally found the door leading out of the school dungeon. His stomach rumbled as the intoxicating scent of eggs and toast filled his nose, guiding him to the Great Hall. There were more people than Harry expected, though they were exclusively older students, all eyes moved to his direction as he entered. He sighed in defeat as he made his way towards the front of the Slytherin table where no one was currently seated. It seemed everyone, not just first years, were intensely intrigued by him for most likely the same unknown reason that caused Malfoy to cling to him so desperately.

He sat and loaded a gleaming golden plate with more food than the Dursley's had ever given him in his entire life, just as he had done during the feast the previous night. He was so immensely happy to finally enjoy what he had been deprived of for so long, merely feeding off of scraps and small nibbles he was able to steal from the fridge every now and then, and savoured every moment. As he ate, he became increasingly aware of the careful whispers and low muttering surrounding him. He felt rage build up as he heard his name being mentioned over and over in conjunction with words like,  _ _"Powerful...", "Dangerous..."__ _,_  and worst of all,  _ _"Evil..."__.

How dare they sit there and talk about him like they knew him when he has done nothing but be sorted into a house like everybody else? Determined not to make a scene, Harry quickly buried his anger and finished his meal quietly, drowning out the sounds of chatter with his thoughts. He drained a goblet of pumpkin juice, then left the Great Hall in a rush as a steady trickle of students began to pour in.

He walked out the entrance doors and sat on a couple of stone steps leading down to the Hogwarts grounds. The sun was just over the horizon, the sky bleeding from red to blue right before his eyes. Fog lightly dusked the dewy grass and the early sound of various types of birds and animals hummed nearby in the dense collection black trees Harry assumed was the Forbidden Forest Dumbledore warned them about in his speech. A strange urge ran through him, it was as if an enchanting animal living within the woods was trying to draw him closer. The feeling left immediate, however, as his eyes spotted a very large and shaggy figure standing outside a wooden hut with a black dog lying at his feet. Not needing a closer look, he swiftly identified the figure as Hagrid. Harry was tempted to go over and talk to him but as noise began to build behind him inside the castle, he decided against it.

Moving through the crowd gathering in the hallway, he saw a speck of pale blond hair and quickly changed direction but it was too late.

"Hey, Potter!"

Harry tensed, his fists balling up against his sides as Malfoy strutted towards him.

"What do you want?" he asked stiffly.

"Did you see the timetable yet?" Malfoy questioned, unaffected by his tone and held up a rolled scroll similar to the one tucked in Harry's left sleeve. "Double potions, on our  _ _first__  day! How ridiculous!"

"It's not that bad," Harry said hypocritically, trying not to hate himself for agreeing with Malfoy when he first read the schedule.

"You're right," Malfoy smiled widely. "Seeing as Professor Snape is the Potions Master it should be an absolute breeze."

"What!" Harry gasped in horror.

"Oh, Potter!" Malfoy laughed. "You really don't know anything, do you?"

Harry fumed, though the other boy failed to notice.

"Why on earth Dumbledore thought to give you to some low-life Muggles was a good idea, I'll never understand," he continued in disgust. "Father was right, he's nothing but an old fool."

"We have to spend the whole morning with  _ _Snape__ —every Monday?" Harry asked in disbelief, ignoring what Malfoy said.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "I don't understand why you're so upset. He  _ _is__  the Head of House for Slytherin, and we  _ _are__  in Slytherin in case you forgot. It's the other houses that need to worry, Potter."

"Goddammit," Harry muttered miserably, hiding his face in his hands.

"What kind of stupid muggle curse is that?" Malfoy sniffed. "You should be so glad to have me, Potter. Think about where you could've ended up otherwise!"

Harry said nothing and let the other boy continue rambling as he was lead back into the Great Hall. He watched blankly as four people joined them at the Slytherin table, two brutish boys, Crabbe and Goyle, Daphne, and a black-haired girl who introduced herself as Pansy Parkinson. Malfoy spoke to everyone as if he were the leader of them, making Harry's blood boil but stayed silent throughout. Only after Malfoy had finished his plate, Crabbe and Goyle cleaning three each, did he stand and beckoned them forth like a commanding officer. After returning to the Slytherin common room to gather the required potions equipment they all stood outside a dark door, still deep within the dungeons.

Harry's gaze flicked from green student to red student, realising that the class consisted of solely Slytherins and Gryffindors—all looking back at him. His face turned to stone as a Gryffindor girl made eye contact with him, making her fold in on herself out of fear. He returned his attention to Malfoy, rolling his eyes as he bragged about something to the girl next to Daphne, just as the door swung open from the inside, though there was no one there.

"Enter!" He heard the sneering voice of Snape call out.

Crabbe and Goyle cracked their knuckles as some Gryffindor students attempted to shove past Harry and the rest of the group, stopping the students as they cowered in fear and allowing the Slytherins to enter before everyone else.

The room was very large, nearly twice the size of the Slytherin common room, with multiple sets of tables lined up and small stools tucked neatly underneath. In the right corner was an oval stone basin currently filled with a mysterious murky liquid, and long stretches of shelves lined the walls. Glass jars containing all sorts of animal parts sat on the shelves alongside heavy looking books decaying with age. At the front of the room stood a scowling Professor Snape, glaring at the students entering the room, and next to him was a wide blackboard covered completely in pale chalk.

Daphne grabbed Harry by the wrist and pulled him towards the professor, stopping at the desk right in front of the class. He roughly yanked his arm back just as Malfoy and Pansy sat opposite. He huffed as he dropped his cauldron on top of the table and pulled the stool out. His eyes flicked to the blackboard, reading the thin writing scrawled all over it with great difficulty when he heard Daphne groan to his right.

"Oh great," she spat, wrinkling her nose and staring past Malfoy and Pansy. "It's the  _ _Mudblood__."

Harry looked up to see a girl with wild bushy hair and large front teeth walk into the room. She scanned the tables closely before deciding to sit with a group of just Gryffindor girls, and Harry couldn't blame her. He remembered how she was pushed against the wall while the rest of Slytherin went inside the common room, and knew that she was most likely the most hated person in the house though to Harry, she seemed far from the worst. Snape's voice soon sliced through the classroom chatter, halting all other noise as he spoke.

"Potions is one of the greatest disciplines there is. It is also the most challenging, and unrewarding of those lazy or impotent," he finished sourly, looking right at Harry.

Harry's fingernails gripped the edge of the table harshly as he stared back into the deep black pools of the professor's eyes, but stayed quiet while Snape continued.

"Many of you  _ _will__  fail this course," he continued bluntly. "As you will not comprehend the exact and precise nature potion brewing requires. So I suggest to those less capable to keep quiet and not make too much of a fool out of yourselves. For your sake only."

Someone in one of the back tables squeaked in fear.

"However there are those that will succeed and will reap the rewards of diligence and determination. If you desire to be the few that will learn how to bottle perfection, brew brilliance, or even deter death, then you will have to prove yourself worthy. Though," Snape added with one final swooping gaze over the class. "I am  _ _not__  easily impressed."

Harry noticed the bushy hair girl leaning forward as she listened intently to the words pouring out of Snape's snarling mouth while the girls around her expressed nothing but shock and terror.

"Now," Snape drawled as he crept up the rows of tables. "During this lesson, you will learn how to brew the potion used to cure boils. But before you begin I wish to ask some basic questions."

Harry watched as Daphne opened her book and flicked through while Malfoy sat with a smug smirk.

"Firstly, who can tell me which type of cauldron brews at the fastest pace?" Snape asked, eyes drilling into every quivering student.

Harry immediately looked to Malfoy and grinned as his face fell, all sense of happiness and pride wiped clean as he physically deflated before him. Nobody seemed to be able to answer the question and just as Snape was about to spit an insult, a hand shot into the air.

"Miss Granger?" Snape addressed the bushy-haired girl, a satisfied smile growing on his face as his eyes dropped to her perfect green and silver tie and serpent badge.

"A copper cauldron, Professor Snape," the girl answered confidently. "A pewter cauldron brews at the slowest pace, whilst a brass brews at a medium pace."

Snape's smile vanished. "I did not ask for the assessment of all types of cauldrons, Miss Granger. You best learn to  _ _listen__  more carefully in the future."

The Slytherins all snickered, Harry's table the loudest, before Snape silenced them with a stern look.

Snape walked to the back of the room as he asked another question. "How many uses of dragon's blood are there?"

This time a few hands rose in the air, though a voice called out before Snape could speak.

"There are twelve known uses, Sir," Granger retorted swiftly. "The most common use is its ability to—"

"What did I say about listening, girl?" Snape hissed angrily, his face contorting into an even more unpleasant shape. "Perhaps you need something to remind you."

Granger looked confused for a split second though kept her composure and her held head high.

"Five points from Gryffindor," Snape sneered gleefully.

An outraged cry from all Gryffindor students rang throughout the room, Granger sat still self-assured though bewilderment inched along her features for a split second.

"What for?" a boy demanded in a thick Irish accent.

Snape smirked viciously at him. "For disrupting the class."

"We didn't even do anything!" the boy yelled back.

" _ _Someone__  did," Snape replied simply, indicating to the table were Granger sat.

"That's not fair!" the boy continued and slammed his hands down on the table. " _ _She__  did it, not us! Why don't you take points from—!"

"Five  _ _more__  points from Gryffindor!" Snape interrupted loudly. "For talking back to a teacher."

The boy opened his mouth to shout back but was stopped by the other boys around him. He huffed and glared at Granger with the same intensity Snape glared at Harry with, if not more. Harry sat in confusion over the loss of the now combined ten Gryffindor points, before remembering Professor McGonagall lecturing them on rules before the sorting ceremony, the breaking of which resulted in the loss of house points that contribute to the end of year House Cup award. He felt a stab of pity towards the Gryffindor students, having points taken from them for no good reason apart from Snape being an awful person.

"Now, one final question," Snape moved to Harry's table. "Mr Potter!"

"What?" Harry replied dumbfounded that he had been asked. "I mean yes... Sir?"

"What is the procedure to make Polyjuice potion?" the professor asked, folding his arms slowly over his chest..

"I—" Harry started, completely lost for words. "I don't know, it's not in the textbook."

"Disappointing." Snape raised an eyebrow in an unimpressed manner. "Though I suspected you would be nothing more than a disappointment, Potter."

Anger bubbled in his chest and his mouth opened without even realising. "What did you say to me?"

Regret filled him instantly as Snape's thin lips curled, his black eyes dancing with a rare display of happiness. He tried to control himself as even more rage threatened to burst out as the teacher leaned over his desk, face looming down at him.

"Detention, Mr Potter, for insubordination." Snape punctuated the last word with a triumphant bite, every syllable smacking Harry in the face.

"Two weeks should be enough for you to learn some respect," he finished with a nasty grin.

Harry opened his mouth, ready to attack the man in front of him—consequences be damned, when a voice called from the other side of the room.

"That's absurd!"

Everyone whipped around, no one more surprised than Harry to see Granger now standing with her hands on her hips as she stared back at Snape.

"Of course he doesn't know, we're only eleven," Granger continued, her voice hitched with slight annoyance. "It's far more advanced than anything we'll do this year, from my understanding it's an O.W.L. standard for fifth year students."

A deathly chill ran over the room as Snape straightened and stalked over to the girl. She held his gaze as he sharply lifted a hand. The girls around her flinched, but she didn't, she didn't even blink. Snape held his finger out to the door, his voice nothing but ice.

" _ _Out!__ "

Granger jumped at the tone, her confidence slipping for the first time, and packed her things in a rushed but methodical fashion. Her eyes meet the teacher's and she gave him one final look before leaving the room, the door slamming heavily behind her and making a couple people gasp in fright. Snape turned to his desk, facing away from the class, and Harry noted he was breathing deeply as if trying to control himself. After he counted to three, the professor turned and gave everyone a steely look.

"I will  _ _not__ tolerate disobedience," he said darkly, his lips curling with each word. "I will  _ _not__ tolerate disrespect. I will  _ _not__  tolerate anyone who thinks otherwise."

For once Snape did not focus on Harry, instead, he gave everyone a solid stare as his eyes went around the room. Harry's eyes mirrored the professor's as they searched around the room, his eyes settling on a tall and gangly red-headed boy. He sat next to a chubby blond Gryffindor boy and opposite the Slytherin girl who had shoved Granger up the wall outside their common room. Between trying to shrug off Malfoy and controlling his anger whenever people whispered about him, Harry had completely forgotten about the boy he shared the Hogwarts train with—the one sitting at the back table, Ron. They had split up when they reached the castle, only to be joined once more after being sorted into Slytherin.

Harry did feel sorry for Ron as the other boy was completely separated from the rest of his family who were in the Gryffindor house, Ron explaining during the train ride, and he clearly remembered the violent outbursts of two twins sharing Ron's vivid red hair. The look of pure terror from that night still etched on Ron's face as he sat miserably at the table while the Slytherin girl looked at him like he was a forbidden treasure.

The lesson continued without any more interruptions. Snape had provided only basic instructions on how to make the Cure for Boils potion, making Harry rely on his book and the fellow Slytherins around him though they seemed just as lost as he was. He endured the group was because they were useful in providing information, however, they were completely useless at this moment and were scraping the surface of his anger as they copied his every move. In the end, he settled for the red smoke streaming from his cauldron, even if it didn't exactly match the description in his book it was still better than the putrid liquid bubbling from Daphne's cauldron.

Snape, however, didn't seem to think so as he swooped down and assessed Harry's potion.

"Can you read, Mr Potter?" Snape sneered bitterly.

"Yes, Sir," Harry responded through gritted teeth.

"Obviously not!" Snape barked. "If you could, then you would have known to stir the potion five times in a  _ _clockwise direction__ _i_ n order to produce a  _ _pink__  smoke."

Harry's heart skipped a beat as pure aggression threatened to take over his body, it took every ounce of energy he had not to speak back.

"Needs improvement," Snape muttered as he left the table and slid his way to the other side of the class.

"He really doesn't like you," Malfoy said as wispy strands of yellow emitted from his potion.

"Really? I couldn't tell," Harry snapped. "Thanks for informing me, Malfoy."

"Don't speak that way to me, Potter," Malfoy warned, his grey eyes growing as dark as Snape's for a split moment.

Harry wanted to scream, to throw the glass vials scattered on the desk, to hit Malfoy right in his pinched face, and he was inches away from doing so were it not for a loud bang that came from the back.

"Mr Longbottom!"

The chubby boy at Ron's table was covered in a thick coating of a tar-like substance, his cauldron left melted on the table as Snape rushed towards him, his black robes whipping students as he went. His hand rose in the air as sparks shot from the tip of his wand. Immediately the boy began to shed the sticky black substance and Harry repressed a gasp as his face was now covered with pulsing boils looking ready to burst at any moment.

"Ten points from Gryffindor!" Snape roared as he gripped the chubby boy by the scruff of his neck. "For utter stupidity."

He pushed the boy toward the door. "Get yourself to the Hospital Wing and out of my sight this instant!"

The boy whimpered pitifully as he covered his face, bumping into a table full of brass weights on his way out of the classroom and making them crash to the ground. Snape flicked his wand lazily and the weights lifted themselves off the floor and back on to the table. Harry watched as Ron threw himself out of the way of the liquid that covered the other boy as it began to move towards him like it was alive. Again, Snape waved his wand and it vanished instantly.

"That," Snape spat and indicated to the remains of the chubby boy's cauldron. "Is what happens when you fail to follow even the simplest direction and  _ _overheat__  the mixture."

Malfoy could not contain his laughter and nearly fell off his stool as he doubled over with malicious mirth. Harry rolled his eyes in disgust as the rest of his table joined in. He had often wondered what would happen if he told them all to go to hell and leave him alone, to be free at last, but never quite managed to follow through. He knew he was better off with them—with  _ _anyone__  than alone like Granger, and though he preferred the company of himself and himself only, he could not deny the importance of allies. Judging by the dirty whispers and looks he received at breakfast, he doesn't have many to other options than the Slytherins cackling wildly around him without a care in the world, like they were untouchable.

As the giggles slowly faded, Harry noticed an odd habit forming by Daphne. Her eyes continuously flicked to the table of Gryffindor girls, settling on a small girl with dark hair helping the student next to her with a smile. Each time Daphne looked over her face dimmed with hidden rage as her hands twisted furiously, breaking anything she was currently holding. Harry hadn't the faintest idea what was causing the reaction, but was deeply fascinated nonetheless.

Maybe the Slytherins aren't as invincible as they want to be.


	7. Friends and Foes (II)

Harry heard Malfoy call after him again and again, his nasal tones growing louder and louder behind a pillar of stone he was standing behind. He needed to move, find somewhere else to escape. As quickly as possible, Harry inched his way to a door a few steps away. He rushed in, closing it quietly behind him and smiling in triumph as Malfoy's voice immediately died out.

Malfoy had only become more relentless as the days progressed. It was barely the end of the second week and Harry already felt like an eternity had passed with the gang of Slytherins weighing him down. Luckily, the remainder of his classes had gone much more smoothly than his first Potions lesson with Snape and most students learnt to ignore him by now. Almost all the other professors had been very friendly towards him— _too_  friendly in Harry's eyes, but he greatly preferred their overenthusiasm over Snape's brooding hatred towards him. Harry had managed to earn his house a total of twenty points so far for completing the most basic of tasks, though this was nowhere near close to Granger's tally.

In their Transfiguration class alone she had answered so many correct questions their teacher, Professor McGonagall, awarded her fifteen points before the class ended. It was the only time he had seen the older witch look remotely happy. While Daphne threw Granger the most vile glares imaginable and Malfoy spat in her direction as he walked passed, Harry was eager to speak with her privately. He had a plan, one he'd been formulating since seeing the Slytherin's initial reactions to the Muggle-born witch, and was desperate to execute it. Assuming she agreed, that is. She was also the only other Slytherin Snape seemed to despise, earning her another positive point as the people the professor favoured were those Harry deeply disliked.

He woke that morning with a renewed sense of determination, his goal was to find Granger and talk to her. Having finished the last class of the week yesterday, he had the whole day to search. Often he managed to catch the very edge of her frame as she rounded the corner and walked out of view after classes, and today was no exception. He had just entered the common room when she had evaded him yet again, leaving him vulnerable to Malfoy as he cornered him. It had taken nearly all of Harry's strength not to push the boy into the fire as he was pulled away from the door leading to the exit. There had been a fleeting moment when Malfoy had been distracted long enough for Harry to slip away and traverse the castle.

Unfortunately, the other boy had been paying more attention than he realised and chased him down the halls of the school. Having no idea where he was going, Harry slipped into a small crevasse within the wall, using the stone to cover him as he found the door leading to the room he was now hiding inside.

Turning to face the mysterious room, his eyes widened as impossibly tall shelves stretched into a dark abyss. There was one lit torch hanging on the wall next to the door, the flickering flame casting deep shadows on the ground. Trying to gather his bearings, Harry spent a few moments examining the nearby shelves and desks. Books of all shapes and sizes littered the area, draped in dried leather and stiff scales. He took a step closer, squinting his eyes as the light faded slightly, and brushed his fingers against the shelves, picking up a small layer of dust as his eyes found multiple desks askew and pushed to the edges of the room with scattered pieces of parchment on top.

"An office?" he questioned quietly to the empty space of the mysterious room.

He was tempted to exit the door he came through, but couldn't risk the possibility that Malfoy was still lurking outside. Instead, he walked back and picked up the torch from the wall, holding it up as he walked down the mile-long aisles. There was a breeze, very weak, but a breeze nonetheless. Heart beating rapidly, Harry followed the source of wind, hoping to find a window or even another door to go through. The journey reminded him of the course through the dungeons and wondered just how interconnected the school truly was when a huge gust of air blew out the small flame of the torch.

"No," he gasped, now plunged into darkness.

With only his instincts to guide him, he held his hands out and proceeded onwards with extreme caution. His feet ran over fallen books and chairs, though he manoeuvred around them with relative ease, taking his time to carefully place each step. Harry counted a full minute while still no sign of light. His robes were feeling too warm on his heated skin and his bag was pulling on his shoulder making it ache with a dull pain. Just as he was ready to give in, a sliver of yellow light slipped from through the wall in front of him in the shape of a rectangle. Not bothering to understand or fully think through the logistics, he picked up his feet and ran towards the glowing frame, realising that it was yet another door. He pushed it was a heavy shove and almost toppled over as it gave way instantly.

The intensity of the fresh sun burnt his eyes as they struggled to focus, but joy filled him as he felt the natural warmth cast over his body. Harry took a moment to enjoy the light when a voice called in confusion.

"Harry Potter?"

Harry jerked violently as he regained his composure. He turned to face the person who spoke to him, jumping again when he recognised the wild mop of hair.

"Granger?"

"It's Hermione," she corrected firmly, reaching out to rearranged a couple of books from her immense pile spread along the desk.

"Sorry," he apologised.

"Where did you come from?" Hermione asked in bewilderment, ignoring the boy's words.

"From..." Harry trailed off as he realised that he could not answer the question since he did not know himself.

"Doesn't matter," she sniffed. "Well, you caught me, tracked me down like an obsessed stalker. Are you proud of yourself?"

He blinked. "What?"

Hermione slammed close the large book in front of her and sighed. "You can tell Daphne to go to hell when you report back to her."

"I don't know what you're saying," he said in frustration.

"Nobody is  _this_  dumb, so stop pretending like you don't know what you're doing!" Hermione snapped. "Now hurry up and throw whatever hex you wanted to use because I have work to do and you're wasting my time."

Harry stared at her. Why is she so hostile towards him? They had never even spoken to one another before now, so what made her so sure he was going to bully her—or worse by the sound of her tone. Regardless, he had a chance to follow through with his plan and knew the exact words to say to make the other girl trust him.

"Hermione," he started slowly. "I don't understand what you're on about but if it makes you feel any better, I don't need that much of a reason to tell Daphne to go to hell."

This time it was Hermione's turn to look blank.

"I don't like her any more than you do," he continued with ease, feeling lighter than ever after finally saying his sincere thoughts. "I don't like her, I don't like Pansy, I don't like Malfoy. I hate them all."

"So..." Hermione said after a moment of processing his words. "You hang around a bunch of people you hate because you know they like you and at times prove useful. Am I right?"

Harry nodded.

"And I'm guessing you want to be friends with me so they leave you alone because I'm the lowly Mudblood and probably the most hated person in the school. Befriending me will send a message to the rest of the Slytherins that you really don't like them since you picked the Mudblood over the Purebloods," she finished smartly.

"Pretty much," he admitted, impressed that she was able to deconstruct his plan so effectively and accurately.

Hermione smirked. "How very Slytherin of you."

Harry couldn't help but laugh and smile with her. She was incredibly smart and perceptive, assets he greatly valued, as well as quick-witted and sharp like a knife. He marvelled at how well this had all turned out. Initially, he thought nothing more of Hermione other than a perfect cover to shake of the slimy Slytherin students, a scapegoat if nothing else, but now he saw her something more like a potential friend. A true friend, unlike everyone else he's met so far at Hogwarts.

"There's just one thing I don't get," she said, scratching her chin. "How did you get in here? There's only one entrance and I was watching it the whole time in case a someone came by while I was... Well, that's not important right now."

"The door..." Harry said, looking back to where he came from but stunned to see that it was nothing but a painting of a small girl in a frumpy white dress.

She stuck her tongue out at him before skipping merrily out of sight.

"Oh, I forgot some portraits can be used as doorways," Hermione murmured, her eyes raking along the thick golden frame. "Gryffindor common room uses one—guarded, obviously, by a password."

Harry went on to tell her the rest of his story about how he ended up in her presence but once he got to the gusts of air blowing through and killing the flame in his torch, Hermione stopped him.

"That was me," she explained with a small note of guilt. "I was practising a Hot-Air charm."

To demonstrate, Hermione lifted her bright red wand and a wave of cool air hit Harry in the face.

"That's why I was on the lookout before," she finished. "I didn't want to be caught using magic outside class."

"If it's a  _Hot-Air_  charm, why is it cold then?" he asked with more bite than he intended, slightly annoyed by her spitting wind at him.

"Because," she said slowly, her own irritation seeping into her tone. "I've only just started using it. I read about it in our charms book and wanted to try it out hence me being in the back corner of the library."

"Would've been nice to have a lighting charm," Harry grumbled to himself.

"You could've used  _Lumos_ ," Hermione said condescendingly.

Harry refrained from grinding his teeth. "I don't know what that is."

She rolled her eyes. "We learnt it in our Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. On Tuesday, remember?"

"Oh..." he muttered, trying not to feel stupid or too angry.

"I'm not surprised you don't to be honest," Hermione added in a more reasonable tone. "In my opinion, Professor Quirrell is rather useless."

Harry was beginning to rethink his idea, the girl was rather arrogant and extremely patronising, but the thought washed away as she averted her eyes and closed in on herself.

"So, what do you want to do now?" she asked quietly, almost... Timid. "As I implied before, I don't have many friends.  _Any_  friends, actually. So, if you wanted to—I would—I mean I'd  _like_  to... If you wanted..."

For the first time ever, Harry saw her shields slip. Not even when she stood up to Snape did she seem fearful or worried. But now, watching Hermione bring her arms up to protect her body, he saw that she was indeed scared. Sympathy flooded him like it never had before while he was suddenly thrown back to all the times Dudley and his horrid bundle of thugs teased him, pushed him, isolated him from everyone else and force him into a life a solitude. He hadn't seen until now, but Hermione was exactly like he was—a scared child just looking for a place to fit in and be accepted, finding nothing but a life of solitude. He decided not to give an answer to her question, instead, doing something he had never done before.

He held his hand out to her.

It took a moment before Hermione saw his gesture of kindness, even longer for her to agree. She analysed his hand like it was a complex code before slowly, very slowly, reaching over to take it. A hot flare burned inside him as a sensation like no other took over his body. She had allowed him to see past her walls, something he knew was deeply personal and potentially dangerous if the wrong person saw behind them. Harry's mouth moved without him having to think.

"They won't hurt you any more," he promised firmly. "I won't let them."

Genuine shock spread across Hermione's face, her lips slightly agape as she stared blankly at him. Harry could see her mind working, possibly trying to see if he was lying, trying to deceive her and lure her into a false sense of security. He had surprised even himself at the promise he so sternly made, unsure why he felt the need to do so but after seeing her so helpless, he knew he made the right choice. At the start of the year, Harry never would have imagined himself playing the role of the defender, someone to guard the lonely and lost, but his life was controlled by contradictions which often made him out to be the fool. As Hermione held his hand, she squeezed tightly and nodded, making everything suddenly fall into place as if the motion was the last piece of an impossible puzzle.

The Sorting Hat had told him  _"Preservation is success..."_  and only now did he realise that it wasn't just self-preservation that mattered—he needed to protect those around him. He couldn't say for certain if he cared for the girl fiercely gripping his hand but knew better than anyone else what it felt like to be an outcast and had let his empathy drive him to this point. If it was a mistake, if this was the wrong move and she had ended up playing him like a two-stringed fiddle, he had only his humanity to blame.

He knew what he had to do. He had been ready for a long time.

With one final look at Hermione, he left, following the corridor to the left and walking past shelf after shelf until he found the door leading to outside the library. Jumping the steps two at a time, he rushed past bunches of students loitering around and continued to travel further downwards, into the depths of the dungeons where he knew they would be. He felt giddy as he imagined their faces, disgusted and horrified, forcing him to breathe and calm himself as he stood outside the wall concealing the entrance to the Slytherin common room.

The password had yet to be changed from the first night, allowing Harry to easily recite  _it_  to the wall and wait impatiently as the stone faded away. He shoved the door open with as much force as he had excitement and scanned the narrow room, swiftly landing on sleek platinum hair sitting on the rich leather couch by the fireplace. As usual, Malfoy was flanked by his idiotic henchmen, Crabbe and Goyle, on either side as Daphne and Pansy casually played chess on an ancient and impressive table nearby.

This was the moment, everyone was around to listen and hear exactly what he wanted to say to them since the moment they all met. It was all so perfect.

"Hi, Harry!" Daphne rose quickly and skipped over, grabbing at his elbow.

"Stop grabbing me!" Harry snapped, wrenching his arm away from the girl with a sharp tug.

Daphne looked back in shock, an embarrassed flush creeping on her skin as she took a step back from him and dropped her arms to her sides.

"I... Sorry, I guess..." she muttered softly, inching her way back to the table with Pansy.

Every time the girl saw Harry she felt the need to drag him around like he was her personal doll. He hated being touched even at the best of times, but now he was ready to finally— _finally_  give her and the rest of the pathetic Slytherins posse a taste of how he truly felt about them.

"Potter?" Malfoy's voice called out and Harry watched as he turned around to face him. "When did you get here? Where did you go this morning? I couldn't find you at all."

Harry walked forward slowly, keeping an eye on the other first-years as they continued to look confused. He wanted to savour the time, make a spectacle out of things as he tore them each down in turn, resulting in nothing but a whimpering mess of a human being. A thrill of sick satisfaction ran along his spine, urging him to hurry and do it now before the chance is taken away somehow.

"I don't like you."

The words carried clear and assertive, rebounding off the walls and striking the disturbed faces of the group for a second time.

"What are you on about, Potter?" Malfoy ordered sharply.

"You're all a bunch of arses and I hope you all rot," Harry answered viciously.

Their expressions were something he would give all the gold in his Gringotts vault to have carved into marble and painted in diamond. Daphne and Pansy were both start white and frozen while Crabbe and Goyle were beet-red with rage. Malfoy, on the other hand, turned an off-shade of green as his breathing hitched and became increasingly uneven.

"I have suffered while you all paw at me like a cat in heat, trailing after me like some pathetic toddler desperate for attention," he said, his voice rising with every word. "You hunt me down, trap me, ambush me and for what? For your own amusement? To boost your ego? To personally torment me? Well, I'm done! You're a waste of space and not worth the air you breathe or the mud you step on."

Miraculously, Malfoy's face morphed into a monstrous sight. It grew larger and larger, fat drooping from his cheeks as they filled like a water balloon. His hair darkened slightly, becoming saturated within a deep yellow, and grew longer until strands fell in front of his beady little eyes that were full of greed and grotesque lust—yearning for suffering and pain. Harry furiously shook his head free of the illusion, his eyes snapping back to focus on the pale and pinched features of Draco Malfoy once more.

"And Daphne, I have a special message for you," Harry added carefully with a smile that made the girl shudder. "From none other than the Mudblood herself:  _Go to hell!_ "

She screamed in anguish which was the tipping point for Harry. He let out the most profound bark of laughter he had ever made, verging on the edge of hysterics as he failed to control himself and ended up hunched over while tears threatened to spill from his eyes. He had done it, he was free. Days of wishing, hours of wondering had done little to prepare him for the reality of the situation. It was the most intense emotion he felt, marginally beating the hot rage caused by his relatives for years on end. His skin was on fire, every fibre of his being danced in the dismay of those around him.

Euphoria.

Harry had never experienced it until now and never wanted it to leave him. It was greater than the feeling of his fists crushing his cousin's bones, better than the look of utter terror on his uncle's face, sweeter than the curdling cries of his aunt. It was bliss. He was swimming in emotions of elation, unrestrained and wild, diving deeper and deeper. He had completely let himself revel into a state of sheer reckless abandonment and barely caught the movement of Malfoy's henchmen running at him, their hands balled and raised.

Without needing to think, Harry raised his wand.

"You touch me, and I'll destroy you."

Crabbe and Goyle skidded to a halt, eyeing the tip of the Pine wand with unconcealed fear. Harry had no idea what he was doing, he knew only a few spells, much less any to use for fighting, but was confident regardless. There was a part of him, buried somewhere within, egging him on—demanding for him to flick his wrist and watch the boys fall to their knees, writhing in agony, for their screeches to ring throughout the school for all to hear. He wanted to do it, he  _really_  wanted to. All he needed to do was to a small jerk of his wand and they'd be finished.

Taking a deep breath, Harry turned and left.

He would not let them control him any more. He would not let them pretend to have any superiority of him any more. He would not let them push him around any more. Never again, he was his own person and had made his decision.

He calmly stalked out of the common room, Malfoy's outraged insults aimed at Crabbe and Goyle bringing a malicious grin to his face as he walked the winding path of the dungeons. When he made it to the end, he paused. Looking back at the miserable stone corridor, Harry knew that the fresh air waiting to meet him on the other side of the door held more than just physical appreciation. He had gone down there as an untamed, angry mess but surfaced as a collected and true individual. Prying open the door, he stepped with more purpose than he could possibly comprehend.

The warmth of the sun hit him instantly, melting away any remaining shred of harboured hatred with the steady stream of light. He knew where he wanted to go, always wanting to before but never having a moment to himself until now. The urge had built from the instant his eyes landed on it, he was ready to finally fulfil his wish. He raced to the entrance of the castle, whipping past the trickle of students going in and out, and was ready to explore.

Harry scanned the beautiful rolling grasslands of the school grounds and the immense and burning desire to wander, to discover hidden secrets of the area gifted to him. His eyes landed on the thick green forest at the bottom of the hill and a niggling growth formed in his body feeling like a tether was sewn to him and something was tugging from within the woods, beckoning him forth. He knew he shouldn't, everyone was expressly banned from approaching the area by the Headmaster, but today he was happier than ever and consequences were of little deterrent for him at the present time.

Preparing to launch himself into the alluring grasp of the environment, he halted as a flash of familiar red-hair flickered out the corner of his vision. Ron was rushing across the land at such speed Harry thought he was flying. He watched as the other boy continued to move in the opposite direction of the forest and towards an enormous wooden structure in the shape of a ring. Four decorated towers equally spaced apart stood proudly, looking like they were scraping the sky, as Ron soon disappeared into the one closest, wrapped in red and gold, and out of sight.

Before Harry could even begin to wonder what on Earth Ron was doing, his mind went blank with instinctual irritation as the vile tones of Professor Snape drilled into his ears.

"Potter!"

He turned and glared at Snape. "Yes?"

It wasn't the professor's tone that drained Harry of his new-found happiness, it was the words spoken next that chilled him to his core.

"The Headmaster wishes to see you."


	8. Liquorice Snap

Albus Dumbledore was a very busy man.

As appointed Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he must address all concerns from both students and staff. As a man praising peace above all he would ensure he soothed any and all worries and wrinkles regardless of how small or, in the case of the uncoiled scroll lying on his desk in front of him, terrifyingly tremendous. There was always the possibility, he knew of course, but it didn't stop the dread that washed over him as he read the message nearly a month ago. The words were imperfect and frantic, as they should be, and was delivered in the dead hours of the night, signifying the sheer magnitude contained within the letter.

Dumbledore sat in his chair, gazing fixedly at the piece of paper while the streams of late afternoon glow entered through the grand windows along the walls of his office, the amber glow reflecting the mood perfectly—serious and sobering. He was expecting precisely one visitor to arrive in the evening, a meeting left far too late and the weight of which settled firmly on top of his shoulders as each day progressed. He had sent word just moments before and was shameful to say he was feeling anxious.

A sharp and concise knock at his door shook him from his muted aura immediately, the sudden interruption forcing him seamlessly slip a careful look of tranquillity on to his face.

"Come in!"

A girl, thin and thunderous, swiftly entered the room. Dumbledore knew immediately who she was from the cloud of frizzy hair that found itself within his sight. He smoothly removed the letter from his desk and smiled broadly.

"Good afternoon, Miss Granger."

"And to you, Headmaster," Miss Granger greeted politely.

"Meaning no disrespect whatsoever, Miss Granger," Dumbledore began sincerely, cutting the pupil off as she opened her mouth to continue. "But I must ask, how did you get in here?"

Slightly puzzled the girl paused in thought. "I read about it, Sir. In  _ _Hogwarts: A History__  by—"

"Madam Bathilda Bagshot," Dumbledore finished for her with a twinkle in his eyes. "Yes, she knew this place better than I. Perhaps better than any single person in history. Marvellous woman."

Miss Granger gave a sterile smile in response.

"How about the password, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore inquired with intrigue. "Only select few people are aware of it at all, much less the correct one."

"I overheard Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall talking about your obsession with sweets in-between classes," she explained plainly. "Which reminded me of your odd warning at the feast, so I assumed that there was only one answer and I was right."

He raised an eyebrow. "And the gargoyle?"

"It's also in  _ _Hogwarts: A History__ , Sir," Miss Granger said simply.

"That is truly outstanding, Miss Granger! A truly admirable deduction." Dumbledore laughed jovially.

Miss Granger blushed lightly but nodded firmly in gratitude. "Sir, I have come to address an issue I've been faced with since the start of the year that I feel has caused consequented damage to me—"

"That has caused  _ _consequential__  damage, my dear," he amended lightly.

Her face closed off as she looked away for a moment. "Yes, I know that I'm just a bit flustered at the moment, Sir, and I would greatly appreciate it if I could finish my sentence without interruption."

"My deepest apologies, Miss Granger." Dumbledore bowed his head though kept his eyes on her. "Please do continue."

"Thank you," Miss Granger said tersely. "As I was saying, I have been dealing with a unique problem. I do not think that anyone else has had to put up with this, but I don't know for certain."

Dumbledore leaned forward in his chair. "And what would this unique problem be?"

"Professor Snape." Her jaw was locked and chin high as she voiced her accusation.

Dumbledore remained silent and allowed her to elaborate without another interruption.

"As you're sure to know already, I am a Muggle-born. Every time in class, he ignores me, looks through me, barely acknowledges my existence. It is incredibly off-putting and I can't help but think that he dislikes me just because I'm not a  _Pureblood_  like the rest of the Slytherins," she finished with a nasty bite.

"I assure you, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said very slowly and very cautiously. "Professor Snape is  _ _not__  prejudiced against Muggle-born students. Or any student in general, to that I give my solemn vow."

Her face was blank, though Dumbledore could see that she was still unconvinced.

"As to your last remark, I feel you should know that there are three other half-blood students in your house," he added. "None of the four houses at Hogwarts would ever be so bigoted to pick only Pureblood pupils and that most certainly includes Slytherin, Miss Granger—in spite of popular opinion."

"Fine." She waved her hand and dismissed the latter statement. "But how can you explain the constant neglect and abuse Professor Snape spits at me every day."

"Professor Snape is... A  _complicated_  man." Dumbledore finished heavily.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Miss Granger said, displeased. "That doesn't quite answer my question. How does Professor Snape being a difficult person have anything to do with how he treats me?"

"I would assume, Miss Granger, that Professor Snape is harsh with you because he sees the potential in you and does not want you to become complacent in your astonishing abilities—yes I have heard the many great things about you, Miss Granger," he mentioned at her incredulous expression. "You have gathered quite the reputation in your short time at Hogwarts, my dear."

The tips of her ears bloomed with colour as she stood with renewed satisfaction. "If that's the reason then I have more questions than answers, Headmaster."

"Professor Snape has his own unique views on education," Dumbledore explained patiently. "He believes that there is no benefit to rewarding students, choosing to instead to make them focus on how to improve and better themselves. While I do not personally agree, he has had substantial success using this technique and produced  _many_  magnificent witches and wizards that have gone on to become some of the best Potion Masters of their time. I assume he means to do the same for you."

Miss Granger dropped her head, a grin tugging at the ends of her lips she tried to subtly hide with her hands but to no avail.

"I hope I have been of service to you, Miss Granger." Dumbledore stood and placed his hands behind his back. "Was there anything else you wished to discuss?"

She shook her head. "Thank you, Headmaster."

"My absolute pleasure, dear," he said evenly.

Just as the girl left the office, he called out after her once more.

"Miss Granger?"

She quickly turned around as if he had yelled at her. "Yes, Sir?"

Snippets of suspicion carved into Dumbledore's mind as he watched her features transform into guilt for a split second, enough for him to see past her defences though no further for her walls stood tall a moment later. However, he knew whatever was guarded deep inside her head was nothing purely well-intended. He was just about to tell her she needn't refer to him as the Headmaster all the time, that Professor Dumbledore would do. But seeing the flicker in her eye made him re-think.

"Enjoy your weekend," he said instead.

"You too, Headmaster." And she was gone.

Dumbledore stared stoically at the wooden door while the soft steps of the student faded away.

He had heard of her great achievements in class, this was true. He had also heard how she had a strong focus on academia and proceeded to out-do every other pupil, which wasn't a negative—far from it. Someone with her drive and abilities  _ _should__  be eager to learn and grow into their vast potential and he would do everything in his power to make it so. But when he heard how she had been abandoned by her house, rejected by the rest of the school, he grew concerned. He knew all too well what talent and vengeance combined could do to a person and believed he just witnessed the early stages of it within Miss Granger.

Dumbledore exhaled loudly and walked over to the window, gazing lazily at the black dots of students scattered along the grounds. The view was something he treasured most about the castle. Stunning blends of coloured hues painting the area with a trailing forest, black lake and numerous hills and rolls of the land. He wondered if the first-year students were enjoying their new lives as witches and wizards, pondered over the fifth-years and their eventual exams, and was happy to think of the seventh-years ready to leave the nest of schooling and fly off into the real world. He didn't think anyone could understand just how much he cared for his students, they were under his care, his protection, his guidance. He would make sure he did right by them, even if they didn't want his help.

Before long, yet another knock pulled him from his thoughts.

"Enter!"

Dumbledore faced back towards the door and was surprised to see an elderly witch, stern and steely, stride purposely into the room.

"Minerva," he greeted simply and gestured to a chair by his desk. "Good to see you."

"Really, Albus?" McGonagall tutted, ignoring his invitation and choosing to stay standing. "You have practically told  _every_  student your password on the first night, I hope you know."

"If any student is astute enough and in great need of me, then they shall always be welcomed to enter and speak with me as one had just before—Miss Granger," Dumbledore explained calmly.

McGonagall smiled warmly, her demeanour changing dramatically. "Oh, she's a lovely girl, Albus, truly. By far, she is the brightest witch of the year. She would have done much better in Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, maybe even Hufflepuff! Are you sure the Sorting Hat made the right decision, putting her Slytherin—?"

" _ _Excuse me!__ "

At the top of one of the many bookshelves lining the room, a patchy and pointed hat sat with a tear running from one side to the other like a mouth which opened and curled into a twisted sneer.

"How  _dare_  you question my judgment?" the hat growled ferociously, its brown leather curling into a wrinkled sneer.

"Calm yourself, my friend." Dumbledore raised his hand at the hat. "My colleague meant you no ill-will, I'm sure."

"For centuries I have sorted every student to walk through this castle," the hat continued heatedly. "I have never once made a mistake and never will I! I am the creation of the four  _greatest_  wizards of the ages, how dare you question their authority! I can see I made the right decision in placing  _you_ , Ms McGonagall—prideful and ignorant just as a Gryffindor should be!"

"That is enough!" Dumbledore waved his hand and immediately the hat became still and quiet.

After a beat of sudden silence, McGonagall spoke in a low voice. "What did Miss Granger come to see you about?"

Dumbledore looked down at her behind his half-moon spectacles and said nothing.

"I have a right to know the issues regarding my students too, Albus!" McGonagall stated clearly, though a little flustered under his penetrating gaze.

He paused then sighed deeply, stroking his long beard with slow and methodical movements. " _Severus_."

Within an instant, McGonagall's face contorted, stony and sober. "Were you aware that he has been punishing other houses for the misdeeds of his Slytherin students? Poor Pomona has had to console countless first years of her house confused as to what they've done wrong. And he's lost Gryffindor over  _ _fifty points__  in the first week, Albus!"

"I have indeed been told such things," Dumbledore replied plainly.

"How can you let Snape run around and boast his bias for all to see?" she asked strongly. "He was never exactly fair before but now has gone too far. He will cost us the cup for sure!"

"I will talk to him, Minerva," he soothed. "I agree he has been acting rather harsh as of late. I think we both know why..."

"I understand he didn't care much for the Potter boy's father," McGonagall said sternly and unforgiving. "But to take it out on innocent children, Albus? That is just cruel—even for him!"

"Severus is a complicated man," Dumbledore repeated his earlier statement with a hollow voice.

"So you keep telling me." McGonagall eyed him closely. "There is more to this that you aren't telling me, isn't there, Albus?"

Dumbledore returned the look. Amongst everyone he knew, McGonagall was the closest of his peers—a truly loyal and dedicated ally. Whenever he was lost, whenever he was drowning in sorrow, when all else seemed hopeless, she was there, a rock for him to keep himself afloat. For years the pair had been together, he had watched her evolve into the strong lioness that she was and was proud to have her as his successor when the time inevitably came for him. But this was something she could not help with. There were only three people in the world that could and he would be meeting with one of them very shortly.

He gave her a defeated smile. "Nothing escapes your keen eye, Minerva."

"I am always here, Albus," she whispered softly, her expression now light and open making her look years younger. "You shouldn't have to do everything alone."

He laughed gently. "I appreciate your undying concern for my health and safety, Minerva, and I am forever grateful. But I am not alone."

"I greatly admire your strength, Albus," McGonagall complimented with a minor note of awe in her tone.

"Was there anything else, Minerva?" Dumbledore questioned, turning to face out the window again though his eyes were unfocused.

"No," she answered swiftly, switching back to her usual persona. "I've just come to inform you that Mr Potter is waiting for you downstairs."

"Thank you," he said and heard her as she saw herself out without any further discussion.

"It's time," he murmured to himself, watching his ageing reflection in the glass with a heavy heart. "It has been far, far too long. I only hope he can forgive me."

It was a shock to see the boy sorted into Slytherin, forcing Dumbledore to re-evaluate his prior assumptions and address the growing concern over the similarities that occurred more than fifty years before. He brushed them aside, however, telling himself that Harry was his own person and this time would be different. He would make sure Harry was given all the care he needed... Provided that was what the boy wished, which was impossible to determine until the Dumbledore admitted the truth to him—one of the many the boy needed to know.

The unsteady yet determined pace of footsteps grew and grew until a single knock on the door echoed. Albus waved his hand and the door swung open to reveal Harry Potter standing frozen with his hand still in the air ready to knock once more.

"Good evening, Harry."

The boy snapped his gaze to Dumbledore, his face drawn shut but his eyes bulging as if trying to figure out what he had done wrong, why he had been sent here, what was going to happen to him.

"I see Professor Snape was able to get my message to you," Dumbledore said warmly. "I do apologise for the sudden invitation, Harry, but this is rather important and I felt it is well past the time you learnt about who you are."

Harry stayed silent.

Dumbledore had heard from Hagrid that the boy was very distant and, based off McGonagall's accounts as she watched over him while he grew up in the Muggle world, he was in complete sympathy. Being forced to reside in a miniscule cupboard, feeding off scraps, in constant defence of ambush attacks from his own blood... It had taken every ounce of strength still left in his old bones for Dumbledore to allow Harry to remain in the Dursley household—he must, for his own protection as ironic as it seemed. At only eleven years old and meeting a mere handful of times, Dumbledore could not deny the fierce affection he had towards the boy standing in the doorway.

"Come, Harry." He indicated to the chair he offered to McGonagall. "There is much to discuss."

Harry inched forth, scanning the area as if determining the best escape route.

Dumbledore walked over to a small table by the edge of his desk and picked up a bowl filled to the brim with delicate yellow sweets. "Would you care for a Lemon Drop, Harry?"

"No, thanks," Harry said with a remarkably clear voice.

Dumbledore nodded and place them back down but not before picking a sweet from his mouth and popping it into his mouth with juvenile glee. Harry stared in wild confusion as the older man licked the remaining sugar from his thumb as a child would.

"Lemon Drops are a particular favourite of mine!" Dumbledore enthused as he sat in his chair behind the desk, watching as Harry cautiously did the same before silence settled over them.

As the stagnant atmosphere dragged on, Harry became more and more agitated. Dumbledore knew that the boy was frightened, even if he tried so desperately hard to hide it. After all, he's been through, Dumbledore was far from surprised by the boy's responses. He had to show him that he was safe, that no harm would come to him. Not any more.

"How are you, Harry?" he asked softly as if trying to console a wounded animal.

"Fine," Harry responded shortly.

Unfazed by the tough tone, Dumbledore continued. "Are you enjoying your time here at Hogwarts?"

The boy shrugged.

"You know, when I first came to Hogwarts," Dumbledore reminisced happily. "I never thought I'd be able to remember where all my classes were, where the common room was—I myself was sorted into Gryffindor house, located at the top of a tower in the—"

"Am I in trouble?" Harry interrupted.

Dumbledore frowned. "Of course not, Harry! I invited you here to talk to you, nothing more."

"Oh..." Harry looked away.

_'_ _ _The boy is just like his father—rushing head-strong into the thick of it with his mother's heated passion. He is__ _ _the true son of James and Lily__ _ _,'__  Dumbledore noted in his head as he took a deep breath, deciding to cut short the pleasantries.

"You have experienced true horrors, Harry, ones most cannot even begin to imagine." Dumbledore started softly. "Your parent's lives were viciously taken from you in the most gruesome fashion and —"

"Everyone keeps saying that but no one tells me what they're on about!" Harry exploded, his chest heaving with unsuppressed rage. "Why— _ _why__ does everyone know more about me than I do?"

"You have spent your life in the shadows, hidden from truths you have every right to know," Dumbledore said solemnly, dipping his chin down in shame but keeping his eyes on Harry out of respect. "Yours is a life of misery and mystery, Harry, and I am deeply regretful to have let you go on for so long without an answer to the questions you have undoubtedly been asking yourself."

Harry's eyes flashed in a manner so similar to the girl Dumbledore knew as his mother he was thrown back into his memories for a short moment and missed whatever it was the boy spat at him.

"You have every right to be angry," Dumbledore said calmly. "But please, if you must, be angry with  _ _me__. It is my fault you have felt like this."

Harry's words froze in his throat, unable to process the gravity of the Headmaster's words.

"I am going to be completely honest with you, Harry. You deserve nothing less," Dumbledore promised. "Will you trust me when I say everything I will say is the truth and everything I have done is to keep you safe—as impossible as it may seem at the moment?"

Harry nodded shakily.

"Thank you, Harry." Dumbledore locked eyes with the boy, making sure he was understanding everything clearly before continuing. "Your aunt and uncle have never told you anything of your parents."

Despite it being a statement more than a question, Harry nodded again.

"The death of your mother hit your aunt harder than she would ever admit," Dumbledore explained plainly. "She loved your mother, despite how it may seem, and ultimately blames magic for her passing... Which is not untrue."

Harry's eyes widened, more shocked than angry.

"You must see, Harry, that magic has both a light and dark side to it, as does everything in life." The Headmaster paused. "Ten years ago, the most powerful dark wizard ever known to our world murdered your mother and father."

Harry's face dropped, wiped clean of all emotion as he stared back blankly.

"Who?" he said in a very low voice.

Dumbledore hesitated. He had expected this question to come up but had never decided what answer to give. It was far too disturbing for anyone to take in, much less a mere child. He can still remember the rivers of tears that flowed on the day the news broke. He can still hear wails of anguish from those dearest to him, feel their body's tremble with grief. He can still remember his own lingering sorrow. However, he had promised the truth. He would not conceal anything the boy wanted to know for any longer.

"Lord Voldemort," he declared in a powerful tone. "He had hunted you and your family for the better part of the year before eventually forcing his way through all the defences your parents and I had put in place for your protection. He had tried to kill you too, Harry, using a spell that has never been defeated. Not until he decided to cast it upon your infant form."

Harry's breathing developed into short pants, his hands clenched tightly at his sides while the information found its way to his ears.

"That, Harry." Dumbledore pointed to the boy's forehead. "Is the reason for your scar. Your scar is why everyone stares at you wherever you go. Your scar is why everyone knows about you. Your scar is why Lord Voldemort perished that night ten years ago."

A heavy hush smothered the room. The air becoming thick with tension, ready to burst at any moment like a lake of oil resting by a lit match. Dumbledore refused to utter another word before Harry, he must let him ask all the questions he wanted. He must let the boy rage at him, yell at him, break objects if he so wished. Dumbledore had made the mistake in withholding all this knowledge and how he must face the bite of the consequences.

A minute passed. Two. Three. Four. By the time the fifth came, Harry opened his mouth.

" _ _Why?__ "

Dumbledore's heart dropped at the tone of the word—the one he was most dreading. It was covered mainly in hot anger, yet spotted with desperation, hurt, fear worst of all... Betrayal. There was still so much more the boy needed to know but Dumbledore knew he wouldn't listen. Not to him.

" _ _Why didn't anyone tell me?__ " Harry hissed.

"I have already told you the answer to that, Harry," Dumbledore whispered. "When Hagrid came to give you your letter, I instructed him to not inform you about any of this. It was selfish but I am only human and sometimes our emotions get the better of us. You had been through so much and I wished for you to enjoy your first year at Hogwarts—your new life as a free child and free from the harrowing truth for as long as possible. I see now that I was wrong. I'm sorry, Harry."

Harry closed his eyes and inhaled slowly before turning and rushing out of the room. Dumbledore's head fell into his hands as the hurried steps faded. He fought for control over his body as guilt stabbed at him from all angles, his own reckless decisions resulting in this disaster. In a sole attempt to shield the boy, he had just hurt him more than any bruise, cut, or scar ever could. The treachery he had caused, the look of hurt on an innocent child's face made him want to end it all. He had only ever seen it once before and it haunted his every waking day, driven him to s life of servitude and protection of the most vulnerable. But he had failed. He was a failure.

A magnificent red phoenix swooped down from behind him, circling the room once before perching on his shoulder. He automatically drew his fingers along the silken body, closing his eyes as the feathers ruffled under his touch.

"Oh, my loyal friend," he murmured, softly stroking the flaming wing. "When will I ever learn?"

The bird nudged him with its beak affectionately and hummed a soulful tune. The sweet music brought Dumbledore to gentle tears that flowed freely down his face while the deep orange glow of the turning eve dimmed and his mind wandered. Almost a decade into the making, he had meticulously manipulated the fragile strings of fate for his own delicate and specialised intentions, preparing for the battle evil would someday bring when it returned—as he always knew it would.

And he had already lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: This story won't be updated until November. Exams are rapidly approaching down my end and this is a HUGE distraction, though a lovely one, so I'll be putting everything on hold until early next month.
> 
> Apologies for the interruption!
> 
> ~jj


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